Page 1 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

EMBER

My Honda’s engine protests as I navigate another sharp turn on the winding dirt road, dust clouds billowing in my rearview mirror. The steering wheel vibrates under my palms, and I grip it tighter, focusing on the rhythm of gravel crunching beneath worn tires.

Mountains rise on both sides of the narrow path, their peaks cutting jagged lines against the afternoon sky. Pine trees crowd the edges of the road, their branches reaching toward my windows like gnarled fingers.

The silence in the car is heavy, broken only by the rumble of the engine and the occasional ping of a small rock hitting the undercarriage.

This assignment could get me killed if I’m discovered.

Infiltrating organizations like this one doesn’t come with backup plans or extraction teams. I’m on my own until the job is done.

A wooden sign emerges from the dusty haze as I crest the final hill: Welcome to Wolf Pike.

Population: 5,270. Someone has carved a small wolf’s head into the wood below the text, and bullet holes pepper the right corner.

Just the kind of welcome that tells you everything you need to know about a place.

Wolf Pike stretches out below me like a postcard from another era.

Main Street cuts through the center of town, lined with buildings that probably haven’t changed much since the 1960s.

I can make out a few cross streets, some residential areas spreading into the foothills, and at the very end of town, almost isolated from everything else, a cluster of buildings that must be my destination.

I follow the road as it curves toward the outskirts, passing a small clinic with a faded red cross painted on white siding, an elementary school with a chain-link fence around a playground, and a park where someone has left a tire swing hanging from an oak tree.

Pineview Motel appears around the bend, a single-story building with peeling paint and a neon sign that probably looked cheerful in 1975. Half the letters don’t light up anymore, so it just reads “Pi e ie Mo el” in flickering red.

I push through the glass door and approach the front desk. A middle-aged woman with graying hair divided into two ponytails looks up from a magazine, chewing gum loudly. Her name tag reads “Betty,” and she looks thoroughly bored.

“I need a room,” I say, though I already know what’s coming. “For a month.”

“Room twelve. One month, prepaid.” She blows a bubble and pops it. “Thirty-five dollars a night if you need to extend.”

Ben told me Betty would have everything ready. I hand her the cash, and she slides a metal key across the counter, making a note in her ledger without much interest.

“Thank you.” I take the key and head back outside, parking in front of unit 12.

Inside, I drop my duffel bag on the floor and walk to the queen bed with its brown comforter.

I test the mattress with my hand, then move to the small table with two chairs.

In the bathroom, I run the shower for a few seconds, checking the water pressure and temperature.

The room smells like cigarettes and pine-scented air freshener, but it’s clean enough.

I check the loose floorboard near the window first. Surveillance device is there, small and black, exactly where it should be. Behind the bathroom mirror, I find the hollowed-out space containing a Glock 19 with extra magazines. Inside the old television set, the prepaid phone sits waiting.

Through the window, past the empty parking lot and across a field of scrub brush, I can see the Wolf’s Den Restaurant and Bar. The building is larger than I expected, two stories high, with a wraparound porch and additional structures behind it.

I unpack quickly, hanging clothes in the narrow closet and arranging toiletries on the bathroom counter.

For this role, I need to look approachable but not desperate.

I choose jeans that fit well without being too tight, a black tank top that shows I’m confident in my own skin, and ankle boots that look comfortable for long shifts.

Hair goes into a ponytail, and I apply makeup that says I made an effort without trying too hard.

Three months ago, I sat in a windowless room that smelled like burned coffee and industrial cleaner. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in harsh white light that made my skin look sickly.

Two men I’d never seen before sat across from me at a metal table that had seen better days. One had a completely shaved head that gleamed under the lights, while the other sported a military buzz cut that probably required weekly maintenance.

“How many ways could you get someone to talk without laying a finger on them?” Bald Head’s voice was gravelly, like he’d been smoking for decades.

I didn’t blink. “Depends on the person. Some respond to fear, others to charm. Most people want to be heard, they just need the right listener.”

Buzz Cut leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “How good are you at pretending?”

“Good enough that you’re asking me to take this job instead of someone else.”

They exchanged a look I couldn’t read. Bald Head opened a manila folder and slid a photograph across the table. Three men standing outside a restaurant, their faces partially obscured by shadow. “This might take months,” he said.

I studied the image, memorizing every detail I could make out. The restaurant’s wooden sign, the way the eldest man held his shoulders, and the defensive posture of the one on the right. “Then I guess I’d better pack for a long trip.”

Now, I make my way out of the motel. Walking to the restaurant takes ten minutes. Three motorcycles roar past me on the main road, their riders wearing leather jackets. A woman in her fifties waves from her front porch, and I wave back with a smile.

Wolf’s Den sits at the end of a dead-end road, surrounded by open space. Smart positioning. Behind the main building, I glimpse additional structures.

A bell jingles as I push through the heavy wooden door, and the scent of grilled meat and beer hits me immediately.

The interior is dimly lit, with exposed wooden beams and booths that look well worn.

A long bar runs along the left wall, bottles of liquor catching the light.

The place is mostly empty since it’s mid-afternoon on a Tuesday, but I can hear voices in the back.

“Can I help you?”

I turn to find a young woman behind the hostess station, maybe early twenties, with blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun. Her name tag reads “Lizzy” in cheerful blue letters.

“I’m looking for work,” I say, giving her a genuine smile. “Heard you might be hiring waitresses.”

Lizzy’s eyes light up. “Oh, thank God. We’ve been short-staffed for weeks.” She glances toward the back of the restaurant, then lowers her voice. “Fair warning, though, the boss can be intense. But he’s not mean or anything, just really direct.”

“I can handle direct.”

“Cool. Let me grab him.” She disappears through a door marked “Private,” leaving me alone to study my surroundings.

Photographs on the walls showcase the restaurant’s history, including grand opening ceremonies, community events, and groups of men in leather jackets raising beer bottles to the camera.

In several of them, I recognize the faces from my briefing materials, though younger versions.

My targets—often called “the Bishop brothers” even though they technically have three different last names—have been part of Wolf Pike for a long time.

“Miss?” I turn to find Lizzy beckoning me toward the back. “He’ll see you now.”

The hallway behind the dining room is narrow, lined with doors on both sides. Lizzy stops at the last door on the right and knocks twice.

“Come in.”

Atlas Bishop’s office is modern and clean. Large windows overlook the back of the property, and the filing cabinets appear to have been recently purchased. The air carries the faint scent of expensive cigars, and everything is meticulously organized.

But it’s the man behind the desk who commands attention. Atlas Bishop fills the space just by existing in it, silver threading through dark hair that’s been cut short.

He’s wearing a simple black T-shirt that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders, and when he looks up from papers scattered across his desk, his eyes are the color of storm clouds.

“You’re here about the waitress position.” It’s not a question.

“Yes, sir.” I settle into the chair across from him without being asked, maintaining a relaxed yet attentive posture. “I’m Ember.”

“Atlas.” He watches me with the unnerving calm of a chess player. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Actually, I just got into town. I used to visit here all the time as a kid.” I let a small smile play at my lips. “My mom and I would come up from Phoenix every summer to stay with the Carmichaels. Harold and Mary. They had this little house on Pine Street with the blue shutters.”

Atlas nods slowly. “Harold died four years ago. Mary followed about six months later.”

“I heard.” My voice thins. “They were like grandparents to me. My mom passed two years ago, and I guess I just needed to be somewhere that felt like home again.”

“I see. What’s your experience?”

“I’ve been waiting tables since I was eighteen. Worked at a diner in Flagstaff for two years, then at a sports bar in Phoenix.” I shift slightly in my chair. “But honestly, I was getting tired of the city. Too loud, too crowded. I remember Wolf Pike being quiet as a kid.”

Atlas nods without much interest. He pulls out a single sheet of paper and slides it across the desk. “Fill this out. References, previous employment, emergency contact information.”

I take the pen he offers and begin writing, aware that he’s watching my hands as I work. The application is basic, nothing that would trip me up, but I make sure my handwriting looks natural.

“You should know,” Atlas says as I finish the last line, “the men who come in here can be difficult. They’re not used to being told no, and they don’t always remember their manners. You need to be able to handle yourself.”

“I can.” I meet his eyes again, letting some steel show in my voice. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

His eyebrows rise slightly. “Good. You start tomorrow at five o’clock, ask for Garrett. He’ll show you the ropes. Pay is twelve an hour plus tips, and tips here are usually decent.”

“Really? That’s fantastic! Thank you so much, Mr. Atlas.” I stand up, a wide grin on my face, extending my hand.

“Just Atlas is fine.” He stands, taking my hand. “Welcome to Wolf Pike.”

His handshake is firm and warm.

“Thank you,” I say again. “I won’t let you down.”

“Lizzy will show you around so you’re not walking in blind tomorrow.”

Lizzy appears as if summoned and gives me a quick tour. Kitchen, storage areas, employee entrance, and break room. She explains the POS system, shows me where cleaning supplies are kept, gives me a Wolf’s Den T-shirt and mentions that I’ll get more tomorrow. I thank her and head back outside.

Walking back to the motel carries a different energy now that I’ve established my cover.

The sun is starting to set, painting the mountains in shades of orange and purple.

I’m right on track for this job, and it’s only day one.

I pass an elderly man walking his dog, and he tips his hat to me.

Two teenagers ride by on bicycles, laughing about something one of them said.

Back in my room, I retrieve the prepaid phone and dial my handler’s number.

“How’d it go?” Ben’s voice comes through the phone, accompanied by the sound of loud chewing that makes me wince.

I kick off my boots and sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m in. Got the job, start tomorrow.”

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

“That was fast. Any complications?”

“Ben, could you please put whatever you’re eating away? It’s disgusting.”

“Sorry.” I hear rustling, then his voice comes back clearer. “Been working around the clock, haven’t had time to eat. This is the first meal I’ve had in twelve hours.”

I soften slightly. Ben’s been my handler for three years now, through four different assignments. He’s the closest thing I have to a friend in this job, always looking out for me, always making sure I have what I need. “Just…next time, maybe finish chewing before you pick up the call?”

“Deal. Now, complications?”

I think about Atlas Bishop’s storm-cloud eyes and the way he seemed to catalog every word I said. “None so far. Cover’s holding.”

“Good. Now, about the wire. You need to start wearing it tomorrow night.”

I groan and fall back on the bed. “You know I hate wearing that thing.”

“It’s for your own safety, Natalie. If something goes wrong—”

“Nothing’s going to go wrong.”

“Famous last words. Look, I know you prefer going in clean, but these guys are dangerous. The wire stays.”

I sigh, knowing this argument won’t end well for me. “Fine. But I’m not wearing it every shift. Only when I think I might overhear something useful.”

But that’s a lie, and we both know it.

“We’ll discuss parameters later. Speaking of which, I’ve been doing more research on Wolf Pike.

Interesting place. Apparently, the town has a reputation for unconventional relationship dynamics.

Multiple men sharing one woman, living together as families.

There are significantly more women than men, but it’s more about the culture they’ve built there. Old traditions, I guess.”

“Alright, Ben, what exactly am I supposed to do with this information?”

“Loosen up, Agent Natalie Hayes. You’re not supposed to bring your uptight ass for this job.”

“Jeez, you had to go with my government name.”

“Ember Collins is a fun loving, sunny twenty-four-year-old. You’re not doing her justice.”

“Of course I am. I just don’t have to pretend with you.” I pull off my socks and wiggle my toes. “You’ve known the real me for three years.”

I can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Fine, whatever. I have to go. Someone’s on the other line.” His voice grows serious. “Remember what we talked about after the Nathan situation. Keep your head clear, keep your distance. Don’t let the lines blur.”

I end the call and immediately remove the battery, tucking both pieces back into their hiding spots.

Nathan.

Ben had to bring up Nathan. Two months pretending to be a couple in Seattle, investigating a money laundering operation.

We made it a bit too real, having sex at every chance and acting like a couple even when no one was watching. Only to find out after our job was over that he’d had a fiancée back in Chicago the whole time.

That’s why I keep work separate from everything else now. And why I won’t let myself feel anything for anyone on a job.