Page 68 of Baby for the Bikers

Blood splashesacross the concrete as my fist connects with the thief’s face for the fourth time. His head snaps back, a tooth skittering across the floor of our garage’s back room. The patch on his jacket reading “Road Reapers” is stained dark with his own blood.

“Wrong town,” I tell him, shaking out my hand. My knuckles are split, but the pain feels good. “Wrong place to pull your little stunt.”

The kid—he can’t be more than twenty—spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “It was just flour, man. Just a stupid diner.”

I grab his jaw, forcing him to look at me. “Ourdiner. Our territory.”

Maddox and Ryder stand on either side of me, silent sentinels. We’ve barely spoken to each other in two days, not since the morning we discovered what’s been happening with Rowan. Thetension is thick enough to cut with a knife, but business comes first. It always does.

“Road Reapers think they can send their guys to hit Black Wolf businesses?” Maddox asks, grabbing a fistful of the kid’s greasy hair and yanking his head back.

“I wasn’t—” the kid tries, but Ryder steps forward and slams a boot into his ribs.

“Wasn’t what?” I ask, leaning down to eye level. “Wasn’t supposed to get caught?”

“Initiation,” he gasps through the pain. “Had to hit—something protected by another club. Prove I could do it.”

I straighten, processing this. The Road Reapers are from out of town, far enough away that they shouldn’t be bothering with Wolf Pike.

“Why here?” I demand. “Why us?”

The kid hesitates, and Ryder doesn’t wait for my signal. The metal pipe in his hand connects with the thief’s knee, shattering the patella. The scream that follows echoes off the concrete walls.

“Boss said—” The kid pants through the agony. “Said this town was easy pickings now.”

I go still, every muscle in my body tensing. Easy pickings. The words hit harder than they should because of what they imply. That we’ve lost our edge. That we’re not feared like we once were.

My boot connects with his jaw, the satisfying crunch of bone giving way under the impact. Blood sprays across the floor.

“Maddox,” I say, not looking away from the thief’s now-unconscious form. “Call their president. Tell him to pick up his trash before we turn it into fertilizer.”

I add, “And tell him the next one who steps into Wolf Pike doesn’t leave.”

We spend the next twenty minutes working the kid over, making sure when the Road Reapers retrieve him, there’s no doubt about what happens to people who disrespect our territory. By the time we’re done, the concrete floor is slick with blood, and the kid’s face is unrecognizable.

I wipe my hands on a shop rag, watching the white fabric turn red. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to send this kind of message, but some lessons need to be physical to stick.

“He’ll live,” Ryder says, checking the kid’s pulse. It’s the first words he’s spoken to me directly in two days.

I nod, not trusting myself to respond without addressing the tension between us. We’ve never been like this before—this silence, this distance. It’s not us. The Kane brothers disagree, sure, but we don’t shut each other out.

Not until now. Not until Rowan.

The memory of her beneath me hits like a physical blow. Two nights ago, taking her to my home, bending her to my will, claiming her so thoroughly she’d feel it for days. The way she surrendered completely, taking everything I gave her. The marks I deliberately left on her skin, where I knew my brothers would see them if they got her alone again.

Every time I’ve seen her since, a blush creeps up her neck when our eyes meet. It’s subtle, but I notice. Just like I noticed theslight wince when she sat down at the diner counter yesterday morning, still feeling the effects of how roughly I took her.

My brothers don’t know. They have no idea what happened when I drove off from the diner that morning, how I took her to our house, how I made her mine in ways they never did.

The Road Reapers come for their guy an hour later, collecting him with hard eyes and terse acknowledgments. The message was received. Wolf Pike is not to be fucked with.

After they leave, I grab my jacket. “I’ve got a race to judge. You two finish locking up.”

Neither responds beyond curt nods. The silence follows me out to my bike, a weight on my shoulders I can’t seem to shake.

The track is packed when we arrive, crowds gathering for Friday night races. Money changes hands as bets are placed, engines rev in preparation, and the smell of gasoline fills the air. It’s familiar. Grounding.

I spot Rowan at the refreshment table, offering water to racers coming off the track. The sight of her—confident, at ease in this world—does something to my chest I don’t care to examine too closely. She’s wearing those tight black jeans that hug every curve and a simple tank top showing off toned arms. Her hair is pulled back, revealing the curve of her neck where I left marks with my teeth just two nights ago.

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