Claimed By My Outlaw Stepbrother

Chapter 3

SIENNA pov~

The heavy wooden front door of the residential house slammed shut behind me, cutting off the distant, idling rumble of the compound. I didn't stop to breathe. I marched straight past the downstairs parlor where my father was trying to pour himself a glass of whiskey with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. I didn't even look at him. If I looked at Thomas right now, I would use my bare hands to show him exactly what three years of heavy mechanical labor had done to my grip strength.

Instead, I took the stairs two at a time, my heavy leather work boots pounding against the pine steps until I reached the guest wing.

My room was small, generic, and still packed in boxes. I didn't have time to unpack before the Satan’s Jacks showed up to claim my flesh and my steel. Now, because of a fake property claim and a club bylaw I didn't understand, I was being forced to move across the hall. Into his space. Into the bedroom of the Vice President.

I grabbed my two canvas duffel bags, throwing my work shirts, clean grease rags, and denim shorts inside without folding them. My breathing was fast and shallow. My heart hammered against my ribs, a chaotic mix of raw survival adrenaline and pure, unadulterated fury.

His bed. His Old Lady.

The words Gage had growled to the rival gang were still vibrating through my skin. He had held me so tight against his inked chest cavity that I could still feel the cold print of his leather vest against my bare shoulder. It was a lie to protect the territory, a tactical play to keep Creed Vance from launching an immediate border war. But inside this house, under this roof, the lie felt like a heavy trap closing around my throat.

I unlatched my door, hauled the bags across the narrow hallway, and kicked Gage’s bedroom door open with the heel of my boot.

The room was exactly like him. It smelled of stale tobacco, black coffee, gasoline, and the cold musk of iron. A massive king-sized mattress sat right in the center of the floor, covered only in dark, utilitarian sheets. There were no soft blankets, no decorations, and no windows left uncovered. A heavy leather club cut hung over the back of a wooden desk chair, the white-and-black skull patch facing the door like a permanent warning sign to anyone who dared trespass.

"Drop the bags by the closet," a deep voice growled from the shadows.

I straightened up, my fingers tightening around the canvas straps. Gage was leaning against the window frame, his massive frame blocking the fading afternoon light. He had a fresh cigarette dangling from his lips, a slow stream of grey smoke rising toward the ceiling as his piercing gray eyes pinned me to the spot. He had stripped off his heavy leather cut, leaving him in a tight black cotton shirt that showed every single line of his heavily tattooed arms and split knuckles.

"I’m not touching your closet, Vandal," I said, my voice steady as iron as I dropped my bags onto the hardwood floorboards with a dull thud. "My clothes stay right here in these bags. The second your club handles Creed Vance and tears up that illegal debt paper, I am moving back across the hallway."

Gage took a long drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing a hot, angry orange in the dim room. He walked toward me, his heavy boots making the floorboards groan underneath his massive weight until he stopped just inches away. The scent of his asphalt and tobacco completely crowded out the tight space, making my skin go tight with immediate, suffocating friction.

"You don't dictate the terms of a safety play, Sienna," Gage whispered, his voice dropping into a low, rough register that made my pulse jump. "Creed Vance has scouts sitting on the high desert ridge right now. If they look through these windows with binoculars and see your bags sitting unopened by the door, they will know the property claim is a scam. You empty the bags. You put your gear next to my shirts. You make it look like you belong in this bed."

I tilted my chin high, refusing to take a single step backward even though the heat coming off his body felt like a furnace. "I am playing the part for the outlaws outside, Gage. But inside this room, the lie stops. I told you down at the garage, and I mean every word. You sleep on the floor."

Gage let out a low, humorless bark of a laugh, his eyes tracking the line of my throat. "This is my room under my roof, sis. I don't sleep on the floor for anyone."

"Then you can sleep in the garage with your custom chopper," I spat back, stepping right into his chest, my finger poking hard against the rigid center of his ribs. "Because if you think for one second that I am sharing a mattress with a man who just branded me as his personal property, you are completely out of your mind. I am a mechanic, Vandal. I know exactly how to sabotage your fuel lines and drain the oil out of your pride and joy before the sun comes up. Try me."

A slow, dangerous twitch hit the corner of Gage's mouth. He didn't look angry; he looked deeply, darkly amused by my fire. He reached down, his large, calloused hand wrapping around my wrist with a firm grip, holding me completely pinned in place. The electric shock of his skin against mine made my breath hitch, but I refused to pull away.

"You've got a lot of teeth for a girl whose father just signed away her life," Gage growled softly, his thumb pressing into the soft pulse point of my wrist, tracking the frantic rhythm of my heart. "But I like the teeth. It means you won't fold when the table turns. Deal. I'll take the floorboards tonight. But if my mother walks up those stairs, you better look like you're happy to be under my shadow."

He let go of my wrist and picked up a heavy iron tool-wrench from the desk, sliding his leather cut back over his broad shoulders. "I have to ride to the main clubhouse. The President called a 'Church' session for the patched members at five. Creed Vance is rolling in to count the books, and I need to make sure the table buys the property claim before the Jacks try to make a move on the border."

"Tell your father the truth about the debt," I said, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the slight tremor in my hands. "Tell him my father is a coward, but the garage belongs to me. The Reapers shouldn't let a dirty bastard like Creed steal a strategic border post just because of a fake piece of paper."

Gage paused at the threshold, his hand gripping the brass doorknob. He turned his head, his gray eyes pinning me to the spot with a look that was entirely cold and serious.

"My father doesn't care about a civilian's garage, Sienna," Gage said, his voice dropping low. "He cares about turf. If he thinks the Jacks have a legal right to that border line, he will let them take it to keep the peace. The only thing keeping the Reapers from handing you over right now is the fact that you have my name pinned to your skin. Lock the deadbolt behind me."

He stepped out into the hallway, his boots thumping down the stairs until the front door slammed shut below. A second later, the roaring thump of his custom chopper exploded in the driveway, shaking the glass windows as he tore out through the compound gates.

I stood alone in the quiet room, the smell of his gasoline and leather still heavy in my lungs. I walked over to the window, watching the cloud of dust settle on the empty road. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, a violent mix of fury, fear, and a strange, suffocating heat I couldn't explain. I turned back to my canvas bags, my fingers trembling slightly as I unzipped them and began placing my heavy work shirts directly alongside his black leather gear in the dark closet.

I spent the next hour organizing my things, trying to ignore the massive bed that seemed to swallow the entire room. By the time the sky outside turned a dark, angry purple, the house was completely silent. My father and Vera had gone down to the roadside bar to handle the late-night inventory, leaving me completely alone in the compound house.

The silence didn't last.

A sudden, sharp scrape against the exterior wood of the porch made me freeze. I stood up from the floor, my breath catching in my throat as the sound moved closer, dragging right beneath the bedroom window. It wasn't the sound of Gage's boots, and it wasn't the sound of a custom engine. It was the distinct, heavy sound of heavy boots crawling up the low drainage pipe right outside my locked glass balcony doors.

Before I could reach for the wrench on the desk, a heavy, gloved hand slammed flat against the windowpane, and a pair of caked denim shoulders broke through the shadows of the balcony.