Page 7 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

I turn to find a man about my age with sandy hair and friendly brown eyes. He’s holding his own plate and wearing a hopeful expression.

“Of course.” I gesture to the empty chair across from me at one of the smaller tables. “I’m Ember.”

“Jake Morrison. I run Morrison Storage out on Highway nine.” He settles into his chair with easy confidence. “Heard you’re working at Wolf’s Den. How are you liking Wolf Pike so far?”

“It’s been wonderful. Everyone’s been so welcoming.”

“Good to hear. Small towns can be cliquish, but most folks here are decent.” He takes a bite of cornbread, then grins.

“Though I have to say, you’ve certainly made an impression.

My buddy Carl from the auto shop hasn’t stopped talking about the new waitress who actually listens when he rambles about carburetors. ”

I laugh. “Carl’s sweet. And surprisingly knowledgeable about classic cars.”

“That he is. So what brought you to our little corner of nowhere?”

“Change of scenery, mostly. I needed somewhere quiet to figure out what I want to do next.”

“Well, you picked the right place for quiet. Sometimes I think nothing’s happened here since the gold rush.” He pauses, studying my face. “You seem like someone who’s used to more excitement, though.”

Something in his tone makes me look at him more carefully. “What makes you say that?”

“Just a feeling. You carry yourself like someone who’s seen the world, not someone who’s spent her whole life in small-town diners.”

Before I can respond, a shadow falls across our table. Atlas appears beside us, his expression pleasant but carrying something that makes Jake sit up straighter.

“Evening, Jake. Hope you don’t mind if I steal Ember for a moment. There are some people I’d like her to meet.”

It’s not really a question. Jake glances between us, reading the subtext. “Of course. It was lovely meeting you, Ember. Maybe we can finish our conversation another time.”

“I’d like that,” I say, though Atlas’s hand on my elbow suggests he has other ideas.

He guides me away from the table, his palm warm against my skin. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Very much. Jake seems nice.”

“Jake’s a good man. Also, recently divorced and looking for company.”

“Ah.” I glance up at him. “Are you warning me off?”

“Just making sure you know the lay of the land.” His tone stays casual, but there’s steel underneath. “Wolf Pike’s a small town. People talk.”

We approach a group of older women who immediately brighten when they see me.

Atlas introduces me as the new waitress, and for the next fifteen minutes, I’m subjected to the kind of friendly interrogation that only church ladies and town matriarchs can deliver.

Where am I from, do I have family, am I planning to stay, have I met any nice young men yet?

“She’s met plenty of nice young men,” Garrett’s voice interrupts, appearing at my shoulder with two plates of dessert. “Including some not-so-young ones.”

He hands me a slice of apple pie that looks homemade and delicious. The gesture is casual, but the way his fingers brush mine when I take the plate sends electricity up my arm.

“Thank you,” I manage.

“Couldn’t let you miss Mrs. Morris’ famous apple pie. She only makes it for special occasions.”

“This is special?”

“Everything’s special when you’re around, lass.”

Heat creeps up my neck at the Scottish endearment. One of the older women, Mrs. Patterson from the grocery store, fans herself dramatically.

“Oh my. Garrett McKenzie, you always were a charmer.”

“Just being honest, Mrs. P.”

He stays beside me as the conversation continues, his presence warm and solid. When someone mentions the upcoming harvest festival, he automatically includes me in the planning discussion, as if my participation is assumed rather than requested.

“Ember’s got good ideas about community outreach,” he says when Mrs. Morris asks about promotional strategies. “Knows how to talk to people.”

I haven’t shared any ideas about community outreach, but I nod along, playing the role he’s created for me. It strikes me how naturally he’s claiming space for me in this community, making me part of their future plans without asking.

“There you are.” Silas materializes on my other side, carrying three cups of what smells like spiked cider. “I was wondering where you’d disappeared to.”

He hands one cup to me and another to Garrett, keeping the third for himself. Like Garrett’s dessert offering, it’s a casual gesture that somehow feels significant. Taking care of me. Making sure I have what I need.

“Thank you. This smells amazing.”

“Old family recipe. My grand-mère would roll over in her grave if she knew I was sharing it with Yankees.”

The ladies laugh, and Mrs. Patterson swats at his arm. “You and your French grandmother stories. I swear you make half of them up.”

“Moi? Never.” His wounded expression is so exaggerated that everyone laughs again.

But while he’s charming the older women, his free hand settles on the small of my back, just lightly. The touch is barely there, easily dismissed as accidental if anyone questions it. But I feel the heat of his palm through my dress, the possessive weight of his fingers.

Now I’m flanked by both Garrett and Silas, with Atlas holding court just a few feet away. To an outside observer, it probably looks coincidental. Three men who happen to be near their employee at a community gathering.

But I can feel the subtle choreography of it. The way they’ve positioned themselves to keep other men at a distance. How they include me in conversations, making me part of their circle. The casual touches and lingering looks that mark territory without being obvious about it.

“I need to use the restroom,” I murmur after another few minutes of small talk.

“I’ll walk you,” Silas offers immediately.

“That’s not necessary—”

“Place like this, easy to get turned around,” Garrett adds. “Better to have someone show you the way.”

They’re not wrong, but they’re also not exactly right. The community center isn’t that big. But protesting would draw more attention, so I let Silas guide me through the crowd toward the back hallway.

“Having fun?” he asks once we’re away from the main noise.

“Your town knows how to throw a party.”

“Our town,” he corrects gently. “You’re part of Wolf Pike now, whether you planned on it or not.”

Something in his tone makes me look at him more carefully. “What do you mean?”

“Just that people like you here. You fit.” He stops walking, turning to face me in the quiet hallway. “Question is, do you want to fit?”

“I…”

“Because if you’re planning to disappear back to whatever life you had before, now would be the time to say so.”

My heart pounds. “Why would you think I’m planning to disappear?”

“Call it intuition.” His green eyes search my face. “You have the look of someone who’s used to running.”

“I’m not running from anything.”

“No? Then what are you running to?”

Before I can answer, footsteps echo in the hallway. Atlas appears, his expression unreadable. “Everything alright back here?”

“Just making sure our girl doesn’t get lost,” Silas says smoothly.

Our girl. There’s that phrase again, casual but loaded with meaning.

“Bathroom’s just around the corner,” Atlas tells me. “We’ll wait here.”

In the small restroom, I splash cold water on my wrists and stare at my reflection. My cheeks are flushed, my pupils dilated. I look like a woman who’s in over her head, which is exactly what I am.

Two kisses. That’s all it’s been. Two kisses and some flirting, and I’m already losing my objectivity. Already starting to think of Wolf Pike as home, of these men as more than targets.

When I emerge, both men are exactly where I left them, leaning against the wall in casual conversation. But their attention immediately shifts to me, tracking my movement like I’m the most interesting thing in the room.

“Ready to rejoin the party?” Atlas asks.

“Actually, I think I might head back soon. It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll walk you back to the motel,” Silas offers.

“That’s really not—”

“It’s late, and you don’t have a car.” Atlas’s tone brooks no argument. “One of us takes you home.”

“All of us take her home.” Garrett appears with my purse, jacket, and a black helmet. Metal buckles jangle as he tosses me the gear. “Figured you might need these.”

Three Harleys sit gleaming under the streetlights, chrome pipes catching light like liquid mercury.

Atlas kicks his bike to life first—a deep, throaty growl that vibrates through the pavement into my bones. Garrett’s follows with a sharper bark that makes my teeth rattle. Silas’s purrs to life last, building from a whisper to a roar that drowns out everything else.

“I’ll take her,” Silas calls over the noise, patting the black leather seat behind him.

The helmet slides over my head, muffling sound but not the vibration thrumming through my chest. I swing my leg over the bike, leather creaking under my weight.

My thighs press against Silas’s hips as I settle behind him, chest flush against his jacket.

Under my palms, I feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the solid warmth of muscle and bone.

“Hold tight, honey,” he says, voice muffled by wind and engines.

The bike lurches forward like a living thing. My stomach drops as we explode out of the parking lot in tight formation.

Wind tears at my jacket, finding every gap and seam. Cold fingers snake up my sleeves, around my ankles, making me press closer to Silas’s warmth.

We hit Main Street at forty miles per hour. Streetlights blur into golden streaks in my peripheral vision. My heart pounds against Silas’s back so hard I wonder if he can feel it through the leather.

He leans into the first corner, and the world tilts sideways. My knee nearly kisses the pavement as we carve through the turn.

“AHHHHHHH!” The scream rips from my throat in half terror, half pure exhilaration, lost in the wind and engine noise.

The bike straightens, and Silas twists the throttle. We surge forward like a rocket, speedometer needle climbing—fifty, sixty, sixty-five miles per hour through the heart of Wolf Pike. Buildings flash past in blurs of brick and glass. My eyes water behind the helmet visor despite the protection.

Another turn, sharper this time. My stomach swoops as Silas drops his shoulder, and I feel his muscles shift beneath my hands as he controls the machine. The engine’s vibration travels through my bones, making my teeth chatter with adrenaline and speed.

Atlas and Garrett flank us perfectly, three bikes moving like a pack through the mountain night. Their headlights carve tunnels through the darkness ahead while our engines harmonize in a thunderous symphony that echoes off storefronts and empty buildings.

Silas guns it on a straight stretch, and another laugh-scream tears from my lungs.

This is insane. This is dangerous. This is the most alive I’ve felt in years.

No undercover agent should be enjoying this much, should be feeling this wild and free, wrapped around a man she’s supposed to be investigating.

The ride feels both eternal and too short. When we finally roar into the Pineview Motel parking lot, gravel crunches and spits under our tires. Three engines cut to silence in unison, leaving my ears ringing in the sudden quiet.

My legs shake like a newborn colt’s as I climb off the bike. The helmet comes off with a soft pop, and cool air hits my sweat-damp hair. I’m grinning so wide my cheeks hurt.

“That was incredible,” I breathe, voice hoarse from screaming and wind.

Atlas kicks down his stand with one smooth motion, boot heel striking metal with a sharp click. Garrett’s boots crunch on gravel as he dismounts, leather creaking. Silas stays seated, green eyes bright with satisfaction as he watches me sway on unsteady legs.

“You’re a natural, belle,” he says, accent thicker than usual.

They walk me to my door like a protective escort. Every footstep echoes in the quiet night air.

At room 12, I fumble with the key, hands still trembling from the ride. The lock clicks open, and I turn to face them in the dim yellow glow of the motel’s security light.

“Thank you,” I say, voice still breathless. “For everything. For including me tonight, for the ride home.”

“You’re one of us now,” Atlas says simply, words carrying weight in the still air. “That’s what we do for our own.”

“Goodnight, lass,” Garrett murmurs, Scottish accent thick with something that might be regret.

“Bonne nuit, beautiful,” Silas adds softly.

They wait until I’m safely inside before their boots crunch back across the gravel.

From my window, I watch three silhouettes mount their bikes, engines roaring to life again.

Headlights sweep across the parking lot as they pull away, leaving me alone with the scent of leather and gasoline clinging to my clothes and the memory of Silas’s solid warmth against my chest.

I sit on the edge of the bed, replaying the evening in my mind. Nothing inappropriate happened. Nothing that couldn’t be explained as normal employer-employee interaction, mixed with small-town friendliness.

But I felt claimed tonight. Marked as belonging to them in ways that have nothing to do with my job at the restaurant and everything to do with something deeper and more dangerous.

For the first time since arriving in Wolf Pike, I realize I might be in serious trouble. Not from whatever criminal operation brought me here, but from something much more personal.

I’m falling for them. And based on tonight’s subtle possessiveness, the feeling might be mutual.