CLAIMED BY THE BIKER KING

VAL'S POV The harsh scrape of metal against metal echoed through the empty garage. I was flat on my back under a vintage Harley, grease up to my elbows and sweat dripping down the back of my neck. My hair was tied up in a messy bun that was barely holding together, but I didn't care. The sound of a ratcheting socket was the only music I needed. Then the quiet was shattered. "Hey! Girlie!" A harsh, raspy voice shouted from the open shop door, followed by the heavy thud of work boots on my concrete floor. I slid out from under the bike, wiping my oily hands on a shop rag. Two men were standing in my garage. Both wore green and yellow patches on their vests… “The Vipers MC”. The taller one, a greasy guy with a jagged scar across his chin, slammed his palm down on my glass display case. "Old man Cruz isn't around to pay his monthly protection tax," the scarred Viper sneered, stepping right into my space. "Which means you're paying us in cash... or in other ways." He reached out a filthy hand toward my collar. I instinctively grabbed a heavy steel torque wrench off my workbench, ready to swing for his jaw. Before I could even launch forward, a massive, gloved hand shot out from the shadows of the doorway, catching the Viper’s wrist in a grip of iron. A sharp, agonizing bone-c***k echoed through the shop. The Viper screamed, dropping to his knees. "You're on the wrong street, boys," a deep, smooth baritone purred from behind him. The second Viper pulled a switchblade, but the stranger moved with terrifying speed. He stepped into the light, caught the guy's throat with one hand, and lifted him completely off his feet before slamming him spine-first into the brick wall outside. "Get out of Garnet Street," the stranger growled softly. "Before I break your other arm." The two Vipers scrambled up, terror in their eyes, and sprinted down the alley toward their bikes. I held my ground, my knuckles white on the torque wrench as the stranger turned around and stepped fully into my shop. Where the f**k did this god drop from? The street rumors around the industrial strip said plenty about "Ghost,” the Vice President of Reaper's Crest but the rumors said way too little about how insanely handsome he actually was. He was towering, easily six-foot-four, casting a massive shadow over my workbench. Dark hair, a sharp jawline, and striking blue eyes that held a quiet, dangerous intensity. A black, intricate tattoo of a coiled serpent and skull crawled up his tanned neck, disappearing under the collar of his leather vest. The heavy leather patch across his chest read: “Reaper’s Crest MC - VICE PRESIDENT.” Six other men in matching leather vests lined up right outside my garage door like a wall of iron. The man took a slow step forward. The smell of cedar, rain, and fresh gasoline drifted off him. He didn't rush into my space. Instead, his sharp blue eyes scanned the shop with quiet, respectful authority before taking in the grease on my face and my messy hair. "Oh," he said, a slow, intriguing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I definitely wasn't expecting to see a beauty like you in a place like this. Where’s Mr. Cruz?" I gripped the torque wrench tighter, squaring my shoulders against his imposing frame. "Mr. Cruz is dead," I said, my voice deadpan. "I’m Valentina Cruz. His daughter. This is my shop now. What do you want?" The guy took a slow, deliberate step closer, resting one hand on his belt, keeping his eyes locked onto mine. "Valentina," he drawled, rolling the name off his tongue like it was a secret. "Has anyone ever told you how ridiculously beautiful you are?" Wait a minute, I thought, my brain replaying his arrogant smirk. Wasn't this guy supposed to be cold and ruthless like the street rumors said? I see why rumors are so damn misleading. This motherfucker is just a massive flirt. I rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Obviously. And what kind of line is that anyway? It's so overused. Did you pull that out of a cheap handbook on how to annoy women?" He let out a low laugh, his blue eyes flashing with genuine amusement. "Ouch. Cold. I was just being honest, sweetheart. I am Jax." "Don't 'sweetheart' me," I snapped. "I don't care who you are or whatever the f**k you're looking for here, I won't pay a damn tax so state your business or get out. I have actual work to do." "Feisty," Jax chuckled, turning his head slightly toward his crew outside. "I like her. How about Princess? Does that sound right?" "I don't care what you like," I replied, crossing my arms over my chest, refusing to let his size intimidate me. "And I am not a f*****g princess. If anything, I'd be a goddamn Queen, but you are obviously too blind to see that. My garage isn't a playground for bikers with giant egos and terrible pickup lines. You know what? I'm not taking any jobs from you. Get the f**k out!" Jax’s smirk didn't fade, but something respectful glinted in his eyes. He raised a single hand to his crew. "Boys, wait outside." The six men didn't argue. They turned around and stepped back out into Garnet Street, closing the heavy wooden door behind them. Now it was just me and Jax in the enclosed heat of the shop. I raised the heavy steel torque wrench straight at his chest. "I said get out," I growled. "Or I swear to God I’ll smash your pretty face in with this wrench." Jax didn't flinch. He actually took half a step closer, his towering frame blotting out the overhead light, his blue eyes locking onto mine with a dark, teasing heat. "You wouldn't ruin a face like this, Your Majesty. It'd be a crime against humanity." "Try me, muscle-head," I said, holding my ground. "I need a custom, high-speed engine built and tuned," Jax said, his tone shifting into something a little more serious, though that captivating spark in his eyes remained. "For the coast-to-coast endurance race. Against the Vipers." The Vipers. The same scumbags he had just tossed out of my doorway. "Not my problem," I said coldly. "Find another mechanic." I grabbed an open gallon jug of dirty, jet-black motor oil off the shelf behind me and popped the cap off. I raised it right at his custom leather vest. "Step out of my shop right now, or you’re going home covered in three thousand miles of recycled sludge," I warned him. Jax held up his large, gloved hands, stepping back quickly with a quiet laugh. "Easy, tiger. Don't ruin the leather. It looks too good on me." "Out, Jax." "Fifty thousand dollars," Jax said smoothly, stopping right near the doorway. I froze. My thumb slipped on the edge of the oil jug. Fifty thousand bucks? To build and tune one engine? That was more than triple the actual cost of parts and labor combined. That kind of money could pay off my father's remaining debt and buy me a brand-new dyno machine for the garage. I lowered the oil jug half an inch, staring him dead in the eye. "How… how much did you say?”