Page 65 of Claimed By the Bikers

“Oui. You did.” I keep my tone steady, watching her. “You saved that family.”

She wipes her hand on her jeans, smearing blood. “The cartel won’t care. They’ll come for me, Silas. I’m just a waitress to them—a nobody who took out one of their own. I know these people. I know their kind.” Her voice hardens, but there’s a flicker of paranoia in her eyes. “I have to leave. Before they figure out who I am.”

“No, you don’t,” I say, stepping closer. “Running won’t stop them.”

“I killed him,” she snaps, her hands trembling as she drops the bottle, glass clinking on the floor. “They’ll make an example of me.”

Atlas is across the room, handling the sheriff’s deputies, his voice calm as he explains—self-defense, protecting customers, clean case. Ember’s eyes dart toward him, but she’s wired, her paranoia buzzing like static.

“They’d come for us anyway,” I tell her, grabbing her arm gently. “They’ve been sniffing around our territory for months.”

She exhales, a shaky huff, and mutters, “Still. That’s a target on my back.”

“Then we deal with it,” I say, holding her gaze.

Atlas calls out, not looking away from the deputy. “Silas, get her to the back. I’ve got this.”

I lead Ember through the mess—past shaken customers, paramedics working the scene—to the cramped bathroom in the back. The fluorescent light buzzes, casting harsh shadows. It’s private, at least.

“Sit,” I say, nodding at the toilet seat.

“I’m fine,” she says, but her voice catches as she notices the blood on her hands—cuts from the glass, scratches on her arms from diving behind cover.

“You’re bleeding. Sit.” I grab a towel, wet it with warm water and soap, and kneel in front of her. “Give me your hands.”

She hesitates, then extends them. I clean the cuts carefully, washing off the blood, watching her wince as the soap stings. “Those kids were screaming,” she says, voice quieter now. “The parents were shielding them, and that bastard was going to?—”

“You stopped him,” I say, moving to her arms, rinsing the scratches until her skin’s clean.

She meets my eyes, fierce but shaken. “It was so close, Silas. I saw his face when he went down.”

“I know.” I brush my thumb over her wrist, steadying her. “I’ve been there. New Orleans, after my sister. I killed her murderer with a knife. Up close.” My voice drops. “You did what you had to.”

She nods, jaw tight. “The cartel won’t see it that way.”

“Let them come,” I say, voice low and hard. “They’ll learn what happens when they fuck with what’s ours.”

Her eyes flicker with that wild spark, and before I can even process it, she’s fisting my shirt in her hands, yanking me forward until our bodies collide.

Her mouth crashes into mine, her tongue thrusting deep, tasting of adrenaline and raw need.

“Silas, make me forget,” she growls against my lips. “Fuck me—now.”

I catch her wrists, pinning them above her head against the wall.

“You want rough?” My voice is gravelly. “Say it.”

Her jaw sets, fire flashing through her fear. “Rough. Hard. Don’t you dare hold back.”

The words ignite me. I release her hands, and her fingers fly to my belt, tugging with frantic precision, the buckle clinking open as she shoves my jeans down, freeing my cock.

“Look at that.” She smirks.

My cock is hard and throbbing, pre-cum glistening at the tip. She grips me, stroking firmly, her thumb smearing the slickness over the head, drawing a low groan from deep in my chest.

Her hands tear at her own jeans, unzipping and, shoving them down with her panties in one desperate motion, baring her pussy. I lift her onto the counter, her ass hitting the cold tile with a soft gasp, her legs spreading wide to hook around my hips, pulling me flush against her heat.

“You are mine, darling,”I murmur, voice thick with want, pinning her wrists against the mirror now, the cold glass making her shiver as she arches into me.