OWNED BY THE BIKER KING

Rain hammered relentlessly against the cracked bus window, blurring the outside world into a smear of grey and black. I wiped the condensation away with the sleeve of my oversized sweater, staring out at the sleepy little town that was supposed to save me. Black Creek. It was the kind of place mapmakers forgot to include. A ghost town hidden in the valleys, where people minded their own business, where dirty secrets stayed buried, and where girls like me could disappear without a single question. Exactly what I needed. A place to become nobody. I tightened my trembling grip on the straps of my canvas duffle bag. Inside was everything I owned: a few clothes, a little cash, and a fake ID I’d paid too much for. My muscles ached from sitting in the back of the damp bus for fourteen straight hours, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the paranoia clawing at my chest. Every time the bus had slowed down, I thought he had found me. The heavy vehicle hissed to a violent stop, its brakes screaming in protest in front of a dimly lit, weathered building. Above the entrance, a buzzing neon sign flickered unsteadily against the pouring rain, casting an eerie crimson glow over the wet asphalt. HELL’S THROTTLE. Bad sign. The name itself felt like warning, but the bus driver was already glaring at me through the rearview mirror, waiting for me to get off. I didn’t have a choice. This was the end of the line. The moment my boots hit the pavement, the heavy, suffocating scent of gasoline, rain-soaked leather, and stale cigarette smoke wrapped around me like a thick blanket. The bus doors slammed shut behind me, and within seconds, its taillights disappeared into the blinding downpour, leaving me utterly alone. Then, I felt it. That primal, icy prickle at the back of my neck. Eyes. Watching me. I froze under the glowing red neon sign, water instantly soaking through my hair. Slowly, I tilted my head toward the shadows across the narrow street. A man leaning casually against a massive, pitch-black motorcycle. Even in the dim light, I could see the dark ink of heavy tattoos creeping up his neck and disappearing beneath his jawline. He wore a damp leather jacket, his broad shoulders easily throwing off the cold. But it was his face that made my breath catch. He was ruggedly handsome, but his expression was carved from stone. His dark gaze locked onto me— heavy, piercing, and terrifyingly intense. It was a look that felt less like curiosity and more like a predator mapping out its prey. Like he already owned the ground I was standing on. And somehow…that look terrified me more than the man I was running from. I should’ve turned around. I should’ve kept walking down the dark road until my legs gave out. That was my first mistake— I stayed rooted to the spot. The biker pushed himself off the motorcycle slowly, his movement fluid and dangerously graceful. His leather boot scraping against the wet pavement as a low thunder echoed directly above us, shaking the sky. Every survival instinct I had spent the last year developing screamed at me to run, to hide, to vanish into the woods. But God, I was so damn tired of running. “You lost, sweetheart?" His deep voice rumbled through the storm, deep and gravelly, sending a strange, unexpected shiver straight down my spine. I swallowed hard, forcing my chin up despite the way my knees shook. I needed to look strong, even if I was breaking inside. “Just looking for a motel.” His dark eyes dragged over me slowly, taking in my soaked clothes, my shivering frame, and the way I defensively held my bag against my chest. His gaze was cold, dangerous, and utterly unreadable. Then, as his eyes lingered on my face, his jaw suddenly tightened, a sharp muscle ticking in his cheek. “Who hurt you?” The question caught me completely off guard, cutting through my defenses like a knife. My breath hitched. Did I look that broken? Was the trauma written plainly across my face? I forced out a dry, hollow laugh, trying to mask my panic. “Do you ask that to every stranger who gets off the bus?” “No” he muttered, taking a slow, deliberate step closer. The rain poured over his face, but he didn’t even blink. “Just the one who look like they’re waiting for a ghost to catch up to them.” My heart pounded violently against my ribs, the sound deafening in my own ears. Because he was right. I was terrified. But I wasn’t terrified of him, or his tattoos, or his imposing size. I was terrified of the billionaire psychopath who was probably tearing the country apart at this very moment just to find me. Suddenly, the loud, deafening roar of high-powered engines shattered the night, echoing from the far end of the dark street. That man’s expression changed instantly. The curiosity vanished, replaced by a lethal, blinding rage. Before i could even process the shift, his large hand shot out, wrapping tightly around my upper arm. "Inside.Now," he growled, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous command. He didn't wait for my answer. He practically hauled me across the wet pavement and pushed open the heavy wooden door of Hell's Throttle, dragging me into the dim, shadow-drenched interior just as the headlights of the approaching bikes began to cut through the torrential rain. To be continued