Running From My Abusive Husband, Claimed By A Biker

Chapter Nine

I grabbed the heavy brass handle and rattled it. Locked tight, just like I told her.

"Emma," I growled, knocking once with a heavy, calloused fist. "It's Ryder. Open up."

A beat of complete silence passed. Then came the soft sound of the heavy deadbolt sliding back with a sharp click.

The door creaked open an inch.

Emma stood in the faint light of the hallway, her hair slightly messy and her eyes wide with exhaustion. But as soon as her gaze hit my face, the tiredness vanished. Her eyes locked onto the dark crimson splatters smeared across my jawline and collar, and her face drained of all color.

"Oh my God, you're bleeding," she gasped, her voice laced with sudden, sharp panic.

Before I could say a word or tell her to back off, she reached out and grabbed my right hand. Her fingers were small, cool, and trembling slightly against my calloused, grime-covered knuckles.

Without waiting for my permission, she yanked on my arm, trying to pull a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound outlaw into the room.

"Come inside," she breathed, her eyes darting around the small space in a frantic flurry. "Where... where do you keep the first aid kit? Is there alcohol? Bandages? You need to clean that before it gets infected—"

I didn't budge an inch. I stood anchored in the doorway, looking down at her small hand gripping mine.

"Emma," I rumbled, my voice flat, low, and completely devoid of panic.

She wasn't listening. She dropped my hand only to step toward the small side table, frantically opening drawers, her breath coming in quick, shallow hitches. "There has to be something in here... Ryder, sit down! Where is the kit?"

I reached out, my large hand wrapping firmly around her forearm to halt her movement—not hard enough to hurt her, but with enough solid weight to freeze her right in her tracks. "Look at me," I commanded softly.

Emma stopped, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly as she turned her head to look up at me.

"It's not my blood," I said, holding her wide, panicked eyes with an unreadable stare.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. Her lips parted, her gaze dropping to the blood on my face, then down to my spotless leather cut, before slowly rising back to my eyes. She didn't pull her arm away from my grip, but the frantic energy in her chest instantly froze into quiet, heavy shock. "It's... not yours?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the patter of the rain outside.

"No," I replied, releasing her arm and stepping back half a pace to give her space. "It's not."

I took a deep breath, as I looked past her to where Noah was curled up under the blanket, fast asleep. "The kid good?" I asked, my tone shifting straight back to business.

"He's... he's fine," she murmured, her voice still trembling slightly. "He slept through all of it."

"Good," I grunted, resting my hand against the frame of the door. "Keep it locked. I'll be in the main hall if anything changes."

I turned on my heel, leaving her standing in the quiet room, staring at the dark hallway after me.

Emma’s POV

My heart was still hammering against my ribs. I stood frozen in the center of the floor, my hands trembling slightly where I had gripped Ryder’s calloused knuckles, my mind reeling.

It’s not my blood.

The cold, flat words echoed in the quiet room.

I looked down at my hands, feeling a sudden, deep chill settle in my chest. When I had seen the dark red smeared across his jaw, my first instinct had been pure panic—assuming he was hurt, reacting before I could even think. But the moment he grabbed my arm and looked down at me with those unreadable eyes, the harsh reality of who he was hit me like a slap in the face.

I knew they were a dangerous organization. From the heavy leather cuts and the weapons strapped to their waists to the casual, terrifying way Ryder had given orders before leaving earlier: If anyone suspicious so much as breathes near the gate, put a bullet in them.

He had said it without hesitation, without a single flicker of remorse, as if ending a human life was just part of his everyday routine. At the time, the sheer weight of his words had frozen me where I stood. And now, seeing him return covered in someone else's blood, there was no denying it. These men were killers. If someone crossed them or stepped onto their territory, they wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet through their head.

A shiver ran down my spine, but as I turned my head toward the bed, my fear slowly gave way to something else.

Noah was curled on his side under the thick blanket, clutching his small toy motorcycle tightly against his chest, his breathing soft and even. There was no wheezing, no fear on his tiny face. For the first time in years, he was sleeping peacefully.

My chest tightened as I looked at him.

My grandfather knew exactly who these men were, what they were capable of, and the dark world they operated in—yet he had trusted them with my life and Noah's. He believed they were the only ones strong enough to keep us safe from Shawn. And if my grandfather trusted them, I had to trust them too.

Ryder was dangerous. He was lethal, unforgiving, and terrifyingly cold. But he hadn't raised his voice at Noah, and he hadn't turned us away. In a world where my own husband had turned into a nightmare behind closed doors, this dark, violent compound was the only shield we had left.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, my legs pulled tight to my chest, listening to Noah’s steady breathing. Sleep wouldn't come, and my thoughts kept drifting back to those few minutes before Ryder and his men returned.

I had stepped out into the back hallway to check the locks, and that was when I saw it: a room tucked away near the end of the corridor, its door standing slightly ajar. Curiosity had drawn me in, expecting to see more weapons or tactical gear. Instead, I found a room filled with musical equipment—amplifiers, acoustic foam, guitars hanging on racks, and right in the center, sitting on a polished wooden stand, a violin.

The sight of it had made my heart skip a beat.

I’ve been obsessed with the violin since primary school. Long before I ever touched a computer or learned to write code, the violin was my whole world. It was the one thing that gave me pure, unfiltered peace. Back then, I used to lose myself in the melody, playing on tiptoes in my room, feeling as though the music could lift me right off the floor. I had dreamt of being a performer, but as college approached, my passion for cybersecurity grew, taking my life in a different direction. Still, even in college, I played late into the night. It was my escape.

And then Shawn came into my life, and piece by piece, everything I loved was taken away.

Seeing that instrument in the middle of the compound felt like finding a piece of my former self. It was almost 4:00 a.m. now—the dead of night, the exact hour I used to play when the whole world was asleep and everything was quiet.

The urge hit me like a wave. I needed to play it. I needed that peace, just for a few minutes, to drown out the noise in my head and the terrifying reality of this night.

Earlier, barely two minutes after I had discovered the room and stared at the violin in awe, the distant rumble of heavy motorcycle engines had echoed down the driveway. Panic had surged through me, forcing me to rush back into our room and slide the deadbolt shut right before Ryder made it down the hall.

But now, as I looked at Noah resting peacefully on the bed, safe and asleep, the restless itch in my fingers was too strong to ignore.

I knew it was risky. I knew Ryder was dangerous, covered in blood, and carrying the kind of raw, lethal violence that should have kept me glued to the mattress. But the house was settled now, the rain was pouring outside, and the dark, quiet compound felt suspended in time.

I slid off the edge of the bed, my bare feet landing silently on the hardwood floor.

I cast one last glance at Noah, making sure he was sound asleep, before gently easing the heavy deadbolt back. The mechanism slid open with a soft, barely audible click.

I pulled the door open just enough to slip through, stepping out into the dim, shadow-draped hallway. My heart pounded against my ribs, each step lightweight and cautious as I crept down the corridor toward the room at the end, drawn straight to the one thing in this dark place that felt like home.

The door to the music room was still slightly ajar, just as I had left it. I slipped inside, the faint scent of dark wood and cold rain surrounding me.

I moved across the shadows on tiptoes. My heart was hammering against my ribs, but the moment my eyes landed on the violin resting on its stand, the chaotic noise in my head began to fade.

I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly as I lifted the instrument, tucking the polished chinrest snugly under my jaw. Next came the bow. I tightened the hair with a quick twist, resting the rosined horsehair lightly against the steel strings.

I closed my eyes, taking a single, quiet breath, and let the bow slide.

The first note rose into the air—a deep, rich, aching tone that vibrated through my collarbone and straight down into my chest. I couldn't help it; the music pulled me in instantly. My fingers began dancing on tiptoes across the fingerboard, drawing out a haunting, sweeping melody.

For a fleeting second, the fear melted away.

In the dead silence of an echoing compound at 4:00 a.m., the sharp, soaring notes shattered the quiet, ringing out far louder than I had ever anticipated. I hadn't even been playing for a minute when the heavy thud of rapid, furious footsteps began pounding down the hallway, vibrating right through the floorboards under my bare feet.

My heart vaulted into my throat. The bow froze across the strings.

Before I could even lower the instrument, the door crashed open with a violent, deafening bang, slamming hard against the interior wall as if hurled open by pure rage.

I gasped, staggering back a step.

Ryder filled the entire doorway. His face was a mask of thunderous, dark anger, his chest heaving, his dark eyes ablaze with lethal intensity as he glared into the room. Behind him, Tank, Jax, and two other patched members came skidding down the hallway, running after him with frantic, tense expressions, as if terrified of what their president was about to do to whoever had set off a sound in the middle of a high-alert lockdown.