Pampered By The Ruthless Biker King

Sloane POV:

I pushed open the heavy wooden door of The Serpent's Coil, letting the deafening throb of heavy metal and the stench of stale beer wash over me. I sucked in a harsh breath, forcing the tremor out of my hands. Tonight, I was a predator, ready to burn my own life to the ground.

My black bodycon dress and flawless makeup screamed out of place in this sea of frayed denim and scuffed boots. Dozens of eyes, heavy with unfiltered lust and suspicion, tracked my every move. I ignored the catcalls from the low-level thugs and walked straight to the bar.

"Double whiskey," I told the bartender, keeping my voice dead even.

Tomorrow was supposed to be my wedding day to Sterling Kensington. But earlier this evening, I’d stood in the shadows of my own home, listening to my mother, Martha White, and my sister, Aubrey, whispering venomous plans to sabotage the ceremony. They wanted to ruin me. So, I decided to beat them to the punch. I would hand them the scandal of the century.

I threw the whiskey down my throat, the liquid fire fueling my resolve. I gripped the cold glass, letting my eyes scan the dim, smoke-filled room. I instantly found my weapon—the devil who could permanently sever the chains binding me to Sterling.

My gaze locked onto the corner booth. He sat alone, methodically wiping the blade of a hunting knife with a dark rag. A solid ten-foot radius of empty space surrounded him; no one dared to breathe his air. He wore a battered leather vest—his Cut. The patches were faded, obscured by the shadows, but the aura of pure, unadulterated violence rolling off him was intoxicating.

My pulse hammered against my ribs, a heavy, unfamiliar heat pooling in my stomach. I walked toward him. The sharp click of my heels on the sticky floorboards silenced the immediate area. The surrounding bikers watched me approach the reaper.

I stopped at his table. He kept his focus on the blade.

"Buy you a drink?" I asked, lacing my voice with a practiced, husky edge.

His hand stopped moving. He raised his head, and the breath caught in my throat. His eyes were a piercing, glacial blue, filled with calculation and a flicker of dark amusement. The sheer, rugged masculinity of his face sent a shiver straight down my spine.

"Do I look like I need a drink, little girl?" he rumbled. His voice was a low gravel that vibrated deep in my chest, sparking a fire I couldn't ignore.

"You look like a man who handles problems," I said, holding his stare, letting my gaze drop briefly to his lips before meeting those ice-blue eyes again. "And I have a lot of problems."

He smiled. It was a cold, feral baring of teeth that made my heart race faster. "Problems usually come with a price."

I opened my clutch, pulled out a matte black prepaid card, and slid it across the scarred wood. "I can pay." I had loaded it with enough untraceable cash to prove this was a serious transaction.

His eyes flicked to the card for a fraction of a second, then snapped back to my face. The amusement vanished, replaced by a heavy, suffocating intensity that made my knees weak. "What do you want?"

"You. Tonight," I said, enunciating every syllable.

He stood up. His massive frame instantly eclipsed the dim light, forcing me to tilt my head back. The scent of worn leather, motor oil, and raw, potent male wrapped around me. He grabbed his leather jacket from the booth, clamped his large, calloused hand around my wrist, and pulled me toward the exit. His grip was iron, the rough skin of his palm sending jolts of electricity up my arm.

A chorus of low whistles and knowing laughter erupted from the bar. Heat rushed to my cheeks, accompanied by a fierce thrill of triumph. Step one was complete.

The cold night air hit us as we stepped outside. He shoved me toward a massive, pitch-black Harley-Davidson. "Get on," he ordered.

I threw my leg over the back seat, the cold leather biting through my thin dress. He kicked the engine to life, the beastly roar vibrating through my bones, drowning out my past.

"I'm Sloane!" I yelled over the deafening engine, suddenly realizing I was about to ride off with a lethal stranger. "Who are you?"

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes catching the neon light of the bar sign. "Kane," he shouted back. "But they call me Tack."

Tack. The name tasted dangerous. He gunned the throttle, and I jolted forward, my arms instinctively wrapping around his waist. His torso was solid rock beneath his jacket, radiating a blistering heat that seeped into my skin. We tore down the midnight highway. The wind whipped my hair, and I pressed my chest against his broad back, completely consumed by the chaotic, terrifying speed and the intoxicating scent of the man steering us into the dark.

He pulled into a rundown motel on the edge of town. He paid in cash, playing the perfect part of a drifting enforcer.

The moment we stepped into the dingy room, he slammed the door shut and pinned me against it. In the flickering neon light slipping through the blinds, his blue eyes were lethal. "Now, tell me what game you're really playing."

I met his glare, pushed up on my toes, and crushed my lips against his.

It was a desperate, calculating collision that instantly ignited into a raging inferno. Tack froze for a heartbeat before his hands tangled in my hair, his mouth slanting over mine with a savage, punishing hunger. I gasped, and his tongue swept in, tasting of whiskey and dark promises.

My hands scrambled over his broad shoulders, gripping the lapels of his leather jacket before pushing it off his arms. It hit the floor with a heavy thud. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated against my lips, and his large hands slid down my spine, gripping my hips to pull me flush against his hardening body.

The friction of his rough denim against my thin dress sent a jolt of pure fire straight to my core. I arched into him, craving the heavy, solid weight of his frame. His lips left my mouth, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down my jaw and the sensitive skin of my neck. I let out a soft, breathless moan, my fingers digging into the thick muscles of his back. Every touch was electric, a raw, consuming transaction of power and heat that made me forget my name, my past, and the impending disaster of tomorrow. He backed me toward the edge of the mattress, his eyes dark with a primal need that mirrored my own.

The frantic buzzing of my phone woke me the next morning. Sunlight stabbed my eyes. My head pounded. I sat up, clutching the thin sheet, the lingering scent of Tack's cologne clinging to my skin. The space beside me was empty.

I grabbed my phone. The screen was choked with missed calls and furious texts from Sterling and my adoptive father, Arthur. I deleted them all with a cold smirk.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed just as the door clicked open. Tack walked in, holding two coffees and a paper bag. "Awake?" His tone was unreadable.

My stomach dropped. He was still here.

Before I could process his return, heavy footsteps pounded on the walkway outside, followed by a violent banging on the door. "Sloane Reynolds! Get your ass out here!" Sterling's shrill, furious voice echoed through the cheap walls.

Tack raised an eyebrow, looking at me with pure, predatory amusement. "Your problems are louder than I expected."

My heart raced, but I forced a careless smile onto my lips. "So, is my investment about to pay off?"