Page 43 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

ROWAN

My eyes snap open at dawn, body still programmed for early rising despite getting no real sleep. The industrial kitchen gleams in the morning light, all that beautiful equipment waiting to be used. But first—coffee. And definitely a shower.

The bathroom mirror shows exactly how rough three months of running look. I brush my teeth hard enough to make my gums ache, like I can scrub away the exhaustion and morning breath. I splash cold water on my face until my eyes feel less gritty.

Clean clothes help, even if they’re wrinkled from living in my car. I pull my dark hair into a messy bun. The woman in the mirror looks almost normal, almost like someone who could belong in a small mountain town.

The morning air holds that mountain crispness I’m still getting used to as I head downstairs.

My car sits where I left it last night, dusty but faithful.

When I turn the key, it makes that worrying sound, which means it definitely needs maintenance soon.

But it starts—it always starts, even after three months of highways and back roads with no proper care.

Main Street glows gold in the morning sun. A woman sweeps her storefront while her daughter helps, their matching aprons making my throat tight. Emma and I used to play normal like that. We’d sneak into Mom’s kitchen early, pretending we ran a real bakery instead of Dad’s front.

“Two chocolate cupcakes, please!” Emma would chirp, barely tall enough to see over the counter. At six years old, she still believed we could have regular lives.

“Coming right up, valued customer!” I’d play along, careful to keep my voice down. Dad hated hearing us pretend.

We got good at being quiet. At finding moments to be normal between Dad’s jobs. Even after Mom died, we kept playing—me teaching Emma to bake real things while the club slept off another party.

I grip the steering wheel harder, pushing away the ache of missing my sister. She’s safe now. That’s what matters.

A small café catches my eye—The Morning Bean. The front windows showcase pastries that make my eyes widen. Through the glass, I spot the morning crowd getting their caffeine fix.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I park in the empty spot right in front. The bell chimes softly as I enter. Coffee and vanilla fill my lungs, familiar scents that almost make me forget to check exits and escape routes.

“Welcome!” The barista’s smile is genuine. Her name tag reads Sarah. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee. Black.” My voice comes steadier than I feel. “And maybe one of those chocolate croissants?”

“Good choice. Just got them out of the oven.” She moves to the coffee station. “New in town?”

My shoulders tense, but her smile holds no threat. “That obvious?”

“Small town. We notice fresh faces.” She slides my coffee across the counter. “Especially ones who look at our pastries with so much interest.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Used to work in a kitchen.”

“Planning to again?” She packages my croissant in brown paper. “Heard Mae’s got a space opening up.”

“Maybe.” I take a careful sip of coffee—perfect temperature, perfect strength. “If things work out.”

“They usually do here.” Her smile widens. “Wolf Pike’s good at giving people fresh starts.”

The way she says it makes something in my chest loosen slightly. Maybe this town really understands new beginnings.

“Thanks for the coffee.” I leave cash on the counter.

“Come back soon!” Her voice follows me out. “We always need more good bakers in town.”

My car starts easier this time; maybe it just needed a rest. I check my list—grocery store next, then maybe that thrift shop I spotted earlier. Basic supplies to start testing recipes.

Black Dog Garage appears ahead, gleaming chrome and custom paint jobs displayed in the windows. My hands tighten on the wheel again, but I force them to relax. Not every motorcycle shop is connected to a club.

A perfect parking spot opens up right in front of the building. The universe is giving me a sign, maybe. Telling me this fresh start could work.

I check my mirrors obsessively as I pull past the space. More shop doors opening. More people starting their days.

My first attempt at parallel parking goes badly. I cut the wheel too late and end up at the wrong angle. Have to pull out and try again.

Three custom motorcycles line the curb behind me. Beautiful machines. The kind of bikes he’d kill to add to his collection.

Stop thinking about Dad.

The second attempt is worse than the first.

The truck’s backfire hits like a gunshot. Pure instinct makes me jump. My foot slips off the clutch. The car lurches backward before I can stop it.

The first impact feels like destiny shattering.

Custom chrome catches sunlight as it twists—fork stabilizers I recognize from Dad’s personal collection, probably eight hundred just for those.

The bike falls like poetry written in destruction, dragging down a second machine with hand-painted flames that probably cost more than three months’ rent.

The third bike’s gas tank reflects morning sun until it doesn’t. The kind of paint job that takes weeks to layer properly—each coat has to cure before the next. The thundering crash of metal meeting pavement makes my bones shake.

I’m out of the car before the last echo dies, moving on autopilot. Three steps to assess damage—Dad’s training never really leaves you. Quick sweep for witnesses—four people on the street, all civilians. Security cameras—probably, but no time to map angles.

The first bike’s chrome is scattered like broken dreams. The second’s frame is twisted beyond repair. The third…god, the third looks like someone’s masterpiece destroyed by my panic.

Combat math races through my head—repair costs, escape routes. Time before police response in a town this size. Whether the owners are close enough to hear.

Move.

The command burns through my panic. Years of club life taught me what to do when things go wrong: Don’t freeze, don’t panic, just move.

I pull away from the scene carefully—not too fast, not too suspicious. Just another car going about its morning business. Nothing to see here. My hands shake so badly I almost hit the curb, but at least I don’t take out any more bikes.

The drive back to my apartment feels endless. Every motorcycle sound makes my heart race, and I keep expecting leather-clad riders to appear in my rearview mirror.

I take three extra turns, doubling back twice to make sure no one follows. Old habits. The coffee and croissant sit forgotten beside me, the morning’s brief hope of normalcy as crushed as those chrome pipes I left scattered on the street.

My hands won’t stop shaking as I navigate the quiet streets. Every stoplight feels like exposure. Every passing car could be someone who saw what happened. By the time I pull into my apartment building’s back lot, my shirt sticks to my spine with cold sweat.

Some first impression I’m making in Wolf Pike.

Dad would be so proud.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” The voice makes me jump as I get out of my car. It’s Kate from 2C. She stands by her car, Ben balanced on her hip. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” The word comes out too sharp. I force my voice softer. “Just… It’s nothing.” I swallow my confession. Can’t risk having any witnesses.

She studies my face with the knowing look of someone who understands running. “If you need anything…”

“Thanks.” I manage something like a smile.

Inside my apartment, the morning sun fills the kitchen with mockingly cheerful light. I pace the length of the counter once, twice, three times. The urge to run burns in my blood.

I could leave now. My car’s still running warm. I’ve got enough cash left. Could be two states away before anyone connects me to those destroyed bikes.

But my eyes catch on the kitchen equipment I’ll never find again. The perfect layout for a bakery. The dream I’ve carried since before Dad twisted it into something darker.

The coffee cup from The Morning Bean sits on my counter, half empty and still warm. Normal coffee from a normal café in a normal town. Everything I’ve wanted since I first started planning my escape.

Running means starting over again. It means finding another perfect kitchen, another quiet town, and another chance at a legitimate business. It means letting Dad win, in a way. Letting his life ruin any chance I have at building my own.

Before I can think too hard about it, I pull out mixing bowls, measuring cups, and the basic supplies I bought yesterday.

No one saw me hit those bikes. No one knows which apartment I live in. No one’s looking for me yet.

Maybe, just maybe, I can fix this. Pay for repairs anonymously once the bakery starts making money. Make it right without revealing myself.

The familiar rhythm of baking helps steady my hands. Vanilla extract and fresh butter—this is the recipe I perfected at sixteen, back when I still thought Dad’s kitchen was just a kitchen.

The first batch of cupcakes slides into the oven just as voices drift up from the street. Male voices. Deep. Angry.

I press myself against the wall beside my window, my instincts screaming danger. But it’s just locals talking about the bikes—normal people reacting to property damage.

The oven timer dings to remind me to rotate the pans.

The cupcakes rise perfectly golden, and the frosting whips to exact peaks. The rhythms of baking help push back the panic that’s trying to claw up my throat.

A door slams somewhere below. Heavy boots on the stairs make my whole body tense.

The chocolate ganache drips precisely from my piping bag. I manage to keep my hands steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. Each cupcake gets the same perfect swirl and the same delicate design.

Just focus on baking. Just focus on creating something beautiful. Just focus on anything except the voices getting closer.