Page 18 of Taken By the Outlaw

A sound behind me—footsteps, multiple sets. My heart lurches painfully as I glance back. Three men are following, their pace matching mine, closing the distance with deliberate intent.

I walk faster, clutching my bag to my chest like a shield. The footsteps speed up too. No coincidence, then. They're following me.

"Hey, sweetheart," one calls. "You lost?"

I don't answer, don't look back, just walk faster still, approaching a jog.

"Rude to ignore us," another voice says, closer now. "We just wanna help."

The laughter that follows has nothing to do with help and everything to do with threat. I break into a run, fear lending speed to my legs. But I hear them running too, gaining on me easily.

A hand grabs my arm, yanking me backward with enough force that I nearly fall. I'm spun around, facing three men in leather jackets—similar to Clark's crew but with different insignia. A snake emblem. The Vipers. The rival gang Clark warned me about.

"Well, what do we have here?" The man holding my arm is older, with a beard and cold eyes. "A little mouse scurrying away from the Wolf's den."

They know. They know where I came from, who I'm connected to. Terror floods me, sharp and metallic in my mouth.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I try, voice shaking. "I'm just walking home. Please let me go."

The bearded man laughs, joined by his companions. "Sure you are, sweetheart. Just happened to be crawling under the Outlaw MC's fence at two in the morning."

They saw me escape. Were they watching the compound all this time?

"Look at her," says another, younger with a shaved head. "Pretty little thing. No wonder The Wolf's keeping her."

The third man circles behind me, and I feel trapped, cornered. "Bishop's got good taste, I'll give him that."

Bishop. Clark's last name. They know him personally, this rivalry isn't abstract—it's specific and focused.

"Please," I try again. "I'm nothing to them. I was being held against my will. I was escaping."

The bearded man's grip tightens painfully on my arm. "Even better. Bishop's plaything, running straight to us. Must be our lucky night."

"Should we take her back to base?" the bald one asks. "Jonas will want to question her about the diamonds."

"After we have some fun," the third suggests, his hand coming up to touch my hair. I jerk away, but there's nowhere to go, trapped between them.

"Clark will kill you," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "If you touch me, he'll hunt you down and tear you apart."

Something flickers in the bearded man's eyes—concern, maybe even fear. But it's quickly replaced with calculated cruelty. "Bishop's got a soft spot for you, huh? All the more reason to keep you around." His grip shifts to my throat, not squeezing but threatening. "Maybe we'll send him pieces of you, one at a time, until he gives us what we want."

My vision tunnels, terror overwhelming everything else. This is how I die—at the hands of monsters even worse than the one I was running from. Except Clark isn't a monster, not really. Not to me. He's dangerous, yes, possessive and controlling, but he never made me feel unsafe. Never threatened to hurt me.

The bearded man starts dragging me down the street, toward a van parked at the curb. I struggle, kicking, scratching, fighting with everything I have. But I'm no match for his strength, for the three of them together.

"Clark!" I scream, abandoning all pretense that I don't belong to the man I was fleeing. "CLARK!"

"Scream all you want, sweetheart," the bald one laughs. "Your wolf can't hear you."

But he's wrong. Because suddenly the night is split by the roar of an engine, impossibly loud, impossibly close. Headlights blind us as a motorcycle tears around the corner, bearing down on us with terrifying speed.

The bearded man shoves me aside, reaching for something in his jacket—a gun. But he's too slow. The motorcycle slides to a stop and the rider is off in one fluid motion, a blur of violence that slams into the bearded man with inhuman force.

It's Clark. Of course it's Clark. Even in the dim streetlight, I'd know him anywhere—the broad shoulders, the lethal grace, the controlled fury of his movements.

He takes down the bearded man with brutal efficiency, a sickening crack echoing as fist meets jaw. The bald one rushes him from behind, but Clark is ready, spinning and landing an elbow to the man's temple that drops him instantly.

The third attempts to run, but Clark is on him in seconds, dragging him back, throwing him against the wall of the nearest building with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs.

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