Page 14 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

EMBER

Atlas’s hands frame my face as he backs me against his bedroom door, the wood solid and unyielding behind me. His storm-gray eyes burn with something that’s equal parts anger and possession, and I can still taste him on my lips from what happened at the racetrack.

“Strip,” he commands, voice rough with barely controlled need.

My fingers shake as I reach for the hem of my shirt, but not from fear. From the adrenaline of being caught, of being claimed so thoroughly against that tree, of knowing that Garrett and Silas are downstairs, understanding exactly what transpired between us.

The Wolf’s Den T-shirt hits the floor, followed by my bra. Atlas’s eyes track every inch of exposed skin like he’s memorizing it, like he’s cataloging what belongs to him.

“All of it,” he growls when I hesitate.

My jeans and underwear join the growing pile of clothes, leaving me naked under his hungry gaze. The afternoon sun streams through his windows, highlighting every mark he left on my skin at the track—the bite mark on my shoulder, the fingerprint bruises on my hips.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, running one finger along my collarbone. “Even when you’re trying to betray us, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Atlas—”

“No talking.” His mouth crashes down on mine, swallowing whatever excuse I was about to offer. “You had your chance to explain at the track. Now you just get to feel what it means to belong to us.”

He lifts me easily, carrying me to his massive bed and dropping me onto the dark sheets. I bounce once before he’s covering me, his fully clothed body pinning me to the mattress.

“This is what you were trying to throw away,” he says against my throat, teeth scraping sensitive skin. “This is what you almost lost.”

His hands map every curve, every hollow, relearning my body like he’s afraid I might disappear. When his mouth follows the path his fingers traced, I arch beneath him, already desperate for more.

“Please,” I gasp when he takes one nipple between his teeth.

“Please, what? Please stop? Please let you go back to your federal handlers?” His tongue soothes the sting, then moves to give the other breast the same treatment. “Or please remind you why you stopped wanting to leave?”

I don’t answer because I can’t. Because the truth is too complicated, too dangerous to voice. The truth is that I don’t know what I want anymore, only that I need him to keep touching me.

He takes his time, worshipping every inch of my skin until I’m trembling beneath him.

When he finally strips out of his own clothes, I nearly weep with relief at the feeling of his naked skin against mine, the weight of him settling between my thighs, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the world.

He sets a rhythm that’s both punishment and worship, reminding me with every thrust what I almost gave up. When I’m close to falling apart, he slows down, building me back up again until I’m begging.

“Don’t ever try to leave us again,” he demands, voice strained with his own need.

“I won’t,” I promise, though I’m not sure if it’s the truth or just what he needs to hear.

When he finally lets me come, it’s with his name on my lips and his eyes burning into mine. He follows me over the edge, filling me with heat and possession and something that feels dangerously close to love.

One week later, I’m walking through downtown Wolf Pike, taking advantage of a rare moment when all three men are occupied elsewhere. Atlas is at the storage facility handling a delivery, Silas is working late in his forge, and Garrett is covering the dinner shift at the restaurant.

Perfect timing. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for days, watching their schedules, looking for a window when I could slip away unnoticed.

I make my way to the small park near the elementary school, where children’s laughter echoes from the playground even as the sun starts to set. Families pack up picnic dinners while teenagers claim the swings, and I blend into the background like any other local enjoying the evening air.

Behind the maintenance shed, tucked into a hollow beneath a loose board, is another phone.

One of several I planted around Wolf Pike during those first few weeks, before Atlas caught me with the first one.

Insurance policies are scattered across town like breadcrumbs, waiting for the day I might need them.

Today is that day.

The moment I power on the device, it starts ringing. Unknown number, but I recognize the pattern—encrypted call routing through multiple servers to hide the source. My stomach clenches as I accept the call.

“Nat? Jesus Christ, is that really you?”

Ben’s voice hits me like a physical blow. For a moment, I can’t speak, can’t process that he’s actually there after weeks of silence.

“Ben?” My voice comes out cracked, uncertain.

“Thank God. We thought you were dead, sweetheart. Radio silence for three weeks, no check-ins, nothing. The whole operation went dark.”

“Where have you been?” The words explode out of me, weeks of carefully controlled emotion finally breaking free. “You didn’t contact me for weeks! You could have sent backup! I thought—”

“I know, I know. There were complications on our end. Communication blackout while we dealt with some internal security issues. But we’re back online now, and we need to move fast.”

“Security issues?” I grip the phone tighter, pacing behind the shed like a caged animal. “What kind of security issues?”

“Someone leaked information about the operation. We had to shut down all communication channels until we could identify the source.” His voice takes on that soothing tone he uses when he’s trying to calm me down. “But it’s handled now. We can proceed with the mission.”

“The mission.” I laugh, and it sounds harsh even to my own ears. “You mean the mission where you left me completely alone for three weeks? Where I had no backup, no support, no way to extract if things went sideways?”

“Natalie, listen to me—”

“No, you listen to me.” I’m pulling at my hair now, rage and confusion warring in my chest. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? What I’ve had to do to maintain my cover?”

“I can imagine it’s been difficult—”

“Difficult?” My voice rises dangerously. “They kidnapped me, Ben. They know I’m FBI. They’ve been holding me for weeks, and you were nowhere to be found.”

Silence on the other end of the line. Then: “They know your real identity?”

“Everything. They know everything.”

“Fuck.” I can hear him typing rapidly in the background. “Okay, this changes things. We need to extract you immediately.”

“Extract me how? I’m in the middle of nowhere with three men who watch my every move. You can’t exactly send a helicopter.”

“We’ll figure something out. But first, I need you to do something for us.”

The way his tone shifts sets off every alarm bell in my head. “What kind of something?”

“We need evidence. Concrete proof of their criminal activities. Photos, documents, financial records. Whatever you can get your hands on.”

“I’ve been trying to gather evidence for weeks. There isn’t any.”

“There has to be. These men are running a major operation out of that restaurant. Drug distribution, money laundering, weapons trafficking. We know they’re dirty.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because we have reliable intelligence—”

“From who?” I interrupt. “Because I’ve been living with them for weeks, and I haven’t seen any evidence of the crimes you’re describing.”

“Sometimes these operations are well hidden. That’s why we need you to plant some evidence.”

The words hang in the air like a bomb waiting to explode. “What did you just say?”

“Look, the Bishop brothers are criminals. We know it, even if we can’t prove it through conventional means. Sometimes we have to help the evidence along to ensure justice is served.”

My blood turns to ice in my veins. “You want me to plant evidence.”

“We want you to ensure that dangerous criminals don’t escape consequences due to technicalities.”

“That’s not how this works, Ben. That’s not how any of this works.”

“It’s how it works when national security is at stake. These men have connections to larger criminal organizations. Taking them down sends a message to every MC in the country.”

I fumble for the record button on the phone, my hands shaking with fury. “Let me make sure I understand this correctly. You want me to plant fake evidence connecting the Bishop brothers to crimes they didn’t commit?”

“I want you to do your job, Agent Hayes. I want you to remember that you swore an oath to protect and serve the American people.”

“By fabricating evidence? By framing innocent people?”

“Innocent?” Ben’s laugh is cold. “Natalie, these men kidnapped a federal agent. They’re holding you against your will. That alone justifies whatever action we take.”

“What if I told you I’m not being held against my will?”

Silence. Then: “Stockholm syndrome is a real thing. It’s common in hostage situations. That’s why we need to get you out of there and into proper debriefing.”

“This isn’t Stockholm syndrome.”

“Then what is it?”

I close my eyes, trying to find words for something I barely understand myself. “It’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it. Plant the evidence, send us your location, and we’ll handle the rest. You’ll be back in Quantico within forty-eight hours.”

“And the Bishop brothers?”

“Will face justice for their crimes.”

“Crimes you’re asking me to fabricate.”

“Crimes we know they committed, even if we can’t prove it through traditional methods.” His voice grows harder. “This is a direct order, Agent Hayes. Plant the evidence, or face charges for failure to complete your mission.”

The recording captures every word, every admission, every threat. When he finally stops talking, I feel like I might throw up.

“Ben?”

“Yes?”

“Go to hell.”

I end the call and immediately upload the recording to my secure cloud storage, the same system I’ve used for years to back up case files.

Then I smash the phone against the concrete foundation of the maintenance shed, watching it shatter into a dozen pieces. Plastic and circuits scatter across the ground, and I grind the remnants under my heel until there’s nothing left but electronic debris.

The walk back to the house feels endless. Every step carries the weight of what I’ve learned, what Ben asked me to do, what it means for the men who’ve become my whole world. By the time I reach the front door, my hands have stopped shaking, but my resolve has never been stronger.

Inside, the smell of Garrett’s cooking fills the air. Something with garlic and herbs that would normally make my mouth water, but tonight my stomach is too twisted with emotion to care about food.

“There you are,” Silas calls from the kitchen. “We were beginning to worry.”

“Just needed some air,” I lie, hanging my jacket on the hook by the door.

“Everything alright?” Atlas appears in the doorway. “You look upset.”

“We need to talk,” I say quietly. “All of us.”

The three of them exchange glances, that wordless communication I’ve learned to recognize. Whatever they see in my face has them on high alert.

“Now?” Garrett asks from the stove.

“After dinner. What I have to say…it’s going to change everything.”

Atlas steps closer, studying my face with uncomfortable intensity. “Ember, what happened?”

“I contacted my handler—well, his call came through the moment I turned on my other hidden burner phone.”

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Atlas asks quietly.

“It happened an hour ago. I recorded the conversation.”

“And?”

I look between the three of them—these men who kidnapped me, claimed me, made me fall for them despite every rational thought. These men have shown me more genuine care in six weeks than my own agency has in three years.

“They want me to frame you,” I whisper. “They want me to plant evidence connecting you to crimes they think you committed.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Garrett even turns off the burner and sets down his spoon with careful precision.

“What did you tell them?” he asks finally.

“I told them to go to hell.”

Something shifts in his expression. “And then?”

“Then I smashed the phone and came home to tell you everything.”

Atlas moves closer, close enough to touch, but he doesn’t. “Do you understand what this means?”

“It means the FBI isn’t interested in justice. They’re interested in using me to destroy you, regardless of whether you’re actually guilty of anything.”

“And it means you’ve chosen a side,” Garrett adds from across the kitchen.

“I chose my side weeks ago,” I admit. “I just wasn’t ready to admit it until tonight.”

Atlas finally reaches for me, pulling me into his arms with gentle hands that shake slightly. “Are you sure about this? Once you cross this line, there’s no going back.”

“There was never any going back,” I tell him honestly. “Not from the moment you caught me at the track. Not from the moment I realized I don’t want to leave.”

“The FBI will come for you,” Silas warns. “When you don’t deliver what they want, they’ll assume you’ve been compromised.”

“Let them come.” I pull back to meet Atlas’s eyes. “I have the recording. I have proof of what they really wanted from this operation. If they want a fight, I’ll give them one.”

“We’ll give them one,” Atlas corrects. “You’re not alone in this anymore.”

“None of us are,” Garrett adds, moving to join our small circle.

Silas pushes off from the counter and wraps his arms around all of us, completing our strange little family. “Then I suppose we’d better figure out how to protect what’s ours.”