Mated To The Biker Alpha Vice President

2

RAVEN’S POV.

Streetlights flicker in and out, casting light over cracked roads and graffiti-tagged walls. Neon signs blink half-dead promises: open 24 hours, cold beer, cheap rooms. Everyone is buzzing, but it doesn’t really matter because no glance would be spared my way.

That’s how I like it.

I cut through alleys too narrow for trucks, tires hissing over puddles, until the world thins into the environment only I know. The adrenaline hasn’t left me—the blood pumping through my veins is still hot, my body still buzzing from the chase. But underneath the thrill is something worse.

His scent.

It clings to me like a second skin. I can almost taste him, feel the heat of his hand on mine.

My wolf is restless, pacing, snarling one moment, whining the next. She wants to turn back. She wants him.

And I… I can’t let myself.

Not now. Not ever. Not when I was one way away from my funeral.

I force the thought down as I roll up to the garage, a forgotten warehouse tucked into the back of an old shipping yard. No sign, no windows, just rusted doors and a smell of weeds. To anyone else, it’s an abandoned property. To me, it’s a sanctuary.

The padlock clicks open under my hand, and I push through the heavy doors.

My garage smells like oil, smoke, and steel. My tools are scattered across workbenches, half-disassembled engines waiting like corpses mid-autopsy.

Maps cover the far wall, plastered with notes, pins, and strings that connect them in webs only I understand.

And against one wall, under a tarp, lies the bike I never ride—the one I pulled from the ashes that night.

I drag my helmet off and drop it on the bench. My reflection in the visor stares back at me. Messy black hair damp with sweat, eyes too dark, skin smudged with road dirt. I strip off my jacket, the leather sticking to my arms. Scars gleam in the dim light—long, pale lines running down my ribs, my hip, the jagged burn across my shoulder blade.

Souvenirs.

I touch the one carved into my side, fingers tracing its raised edge. It still feels fresh, even years later.

That’s what the blood moon outlaws gave me.

Not just scars. Not just broken bones. They gave me pain, blood, and loss burned so deep into my marrow that I will never be able to wash it out.

And the blood—god, I still see it when I close my eyes. The Blood Moon outlaw jacket painted in blood, they grinning like my whole world was the burning behind me.

My breath catches. I press my fist to my sternum until it hurts, as if pain can hold the memories back.

But the past never really lets go. The grief never leaves. It comes waiting for you on one lonely night, waiting to gut me when I am the weakest, and tonight almost gutted me.

Silver eyes. Heat in my veins that wasn’t from rage.

I stagger to the workbench and yank open a drawer. Whiskey sloshes into a cracked glass, and I throw it back in one swallow. It burns my throat raw, but it’s nothing compared to the bond gnawing at me.

Pulling at my insides, threatening to spill all my organs on the table if I don’t go to him.

“Not him,” I whisper into the dark. My voice shakes. “Not ever.”

But my wolf doesn’t listen. She curls inside me, whining, whispering. Ours. Ours. Ours.

I slam the glass down hard enough to crack what’s left of it and decide to get some sleep.

Perhaps only then would my mind let go of the figment of this night’s memory, but sleep doesn’t come easily.

I lay on the bed, my eyes opened wide, staring at my cracked ceiling like it held a solution to my problem, but I wasn’t getting anything.

No solution, no sleep.

I wait with my eyes open till it finally does, and it drags me under fast and hard.

I dream of blood and silver.

A hand on my waist, pulling me close. A mouth against my throat, hot breath making me arch. A voice I have never heard, low and rough, murmuring mine.

I wake up with a moan, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, my heart beating like it’s trying to escape. The phantom heat lingers, pressed into my skin like bruises no one is allowed to see.

My wolf howls in my chest, desperate and starved.

I bite my fist to keep from screaming.

This bond is a chain. I know it. I swore I would never wear chains again.

But gods help me—I already feel them tightening.

By morning, my sanctuary feels smaller. The garage walls press in. The maps blur. Every scar itches with the memory of my brother’s corpse.

I pace until my legs shake, until I can’t tell if I’m running from ghosts or dragging them closer.

When a knock came, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

A soft tap against the gate. Then a pause. Then two more.

My contact.

I shove my jacket back on and unlatch the side door. A kid slips in—barely twenty, wiry, eyes darting everywhere like a rabbit that knows foxes are close. He doesn’t speak. He just hands me a folder.

The paper is still warm from the printer.

Inside: photos, notes, a list of names.

And at the bottom, scrawled in messy handwriting:

Blood moon outlaw meet. The Black Vulture Bar. Friday.

A laugh bubbles out of me—half hysteria, half triumph.

The Vulture is notorious. A biker bar on the edge of nowhere, crawling with outlaws and wolves who thrive on violence. The kind of place where law doesn’t exist and death is just another round of drinks.

Perfect.

Exactly the kind of nest I can burn.

But even as my blood is sizzling with the promise of revenge, I feel something in my chest.

If he’s there—if my mate is tangled up in this…

I close the folder before the thought finishes.

It doesn’t matter.

I swore I would destroy them all. Blood moon outlaws by Blood moon outlaws, until nothing is left but smoke and their brother’s blood spilled across their base.

Even if it kills me.

Especially if it kills me