Aliyah’s POV

The moment I woke up, I wished I hadn’t.

A splitting headache tore through my skull like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. My mouth tasted like ash, my tongue dry, and my limbs too heavy to move. It felt like my head was about to fall off my neck, and my brain was trying to claw its way out.

Where... am I?

I blinked. The sheets felt too smooth to be mine. The scent of cinnamon and pine hung in the air, rich and masculine. This wasn’t home.

I turned my head—slowly, painfully—and that’s when I noticed the bed beside me wasn’t empty.

A man.

He was facing the other way, but I could see the broad shoulders beneath the sheet, muscles shifting as he breathed. A wave of panic clenched my chest. I clutched the bedsheet to cover my nakedness and sat up slowly.

Then it hit me. Flashes. Sounds. Movement. Moans.

*Flashback Last night*

His lips on my neck. His fingers digging into my waist. My name falling from his mouth like a promise. The way his eyes had stared into mine as if he could read every broken part of me and still wanted all of it.

"You taste so fucking good..." He groaned right into my ears as his tongue delves deeper into my wet pussy. I moaned and this made me throw my head back. I saw different stars and he didn't stop. I came right into his mouth and like a water-deprived man, he took in all of it. The way his tongue flickered around my taut, pink nipples.

"Fuck" I moaned.

Even though I didn't see his face, I saw how long, huge and veiny his cock slipped right into my red, swollen pussy. How I rode him to ecstacy, how he moaned and groaned right into my ears. My fingers trailing down his biceps.

I shut my eyes tightly. No, no, no. This can't be real.

As I blinked through my haze, the man shifted and turned toward me. The sunlight spilling through the curtains fell on his face—and everything in me went still.

The room around me turned cold.

Ice.

It felt like everything froze.

I could see him clearly now. The man from the bar.

Asher Moretti.

His jawline was sharp and covered with stubble that looked like it had been sculpted by divine hands. His hair was dark and tousled, like a sin I couldn’t resist. A thick tattoo crawled from the base of his neck and disappeared under his bare chest—trailing over skin that looked like it was carved from marble.

He wore a leather jacket, half-slipped from his shoulders, revealing more ink and that undeniable aura of danger. A biker.

I swallowed hard.

"Asher Moretti..." I breathed without meaning to.

He tilted his head, his gaze sharp. “You okay?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

My brain short-circuited.

Asher Moretti. The same man who owned M Spring Boots, the most feared biker club in the region. The very club Cohen belonged to.

Oh God.

Was it all a setup? Was Asher part of the prank too?

Did he know who I was?

Did he see the pictures? Was he laughing inside at the foolish girl who gave her heart away and got her body sold as a joke?

I felt bile crawl up my throat.

He furrowed his brows, shifting to sit up. “Did I do something wrong? You’ve been quiet since you woke up—are you hurt?”

I looked at him again. His voice wasn’t cruel. He sounded... genuinely concerned. But that didn’t matter.

I couldn’t trust any of them. Not after what Cohen did. Not after my body became public entertainment for a pack of wolves with dirty eyes and uglier hearts.

I sprang from the bed like it was on fire, yanking my clothes together. I could barely breathe.

I need to get out of here. Now.

I couldn’t let him find out who I was. I couldn’t let him see the shame stitched across my skin. I couldn’t be the girl whose nude pictures went viral—and ended up in the same bed with another member of that same cursed club.

I didn’t answer his questions. I didn’t meet his eyes. I didn’t even look back as I ran out of the hotel room, heart pounding in my chest.

To him, I must’ve looked insane. Dumb, even. But I didn’t care.

I needed to escape.

Out of breath and blinded by tears, I stumbled down the sidewalk, not caring where I was going until—

"Pumpkin?"

I stopped.

That voice.

I turned sharply and there he was—Papa.

His arms opened instantly, and I ran into them without a second thought.

“Aliyah,” he whispered, pulling me tight against his chest. “What happened?”

But I couldn’t say a word. I buried my face in his shirt and let the tears fall silently.

I couldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t let him see me broken like this.

Not yet.

---

Later that night, I sat on my bed, the dim light of the screen bathing my face in blue. My iPad sat on my lap, and my fingers hovered over the screen. But I didn’t scroll.

I couldn’t.

The images were already seared into my mind.

My nude photos. Posted. Shared. Mocked.

I stared at myself. My body. My vulnerability. My soul—naked for the world to chew up and spit out.

Tears streamed silently down my cheeks.

The door creaked open.

“Aliyah?” Papa’s voice was soft as he stepped inside, his eyes immediately catching the glow of the screen and the tears on my face. He didn’t say anything. He just sat beside me and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“It’s okay to cry,” he said. “But don’t stay there too long.”

I tried to speak. Nothing came out.

He glanced at the iPad, then back at me.

“I know it hurts. But life won’t wait for you to stop hurting before it moves on. You’ve got two choices: break apart, or rebuild.”

“I’m not strong like you, Papa.”

He chuckled gently. “Then get stronger. Become who you were always meant to be.”

“I can’t step into that world. I can’t race. Not now. Not with this shame hanging over me.”

“Aliyah,” he said, standing. “You’re a loser only if you give up your life because of one downfall. Remember this—where there’s a will, there’s always a way.”

He kissed my forehead and left me alone in the room, his words echoing louder than any scream I could let out.

Where there’s a will...

I curled into myself, hugging my knees as fresh tears came again.

But this time, something shifted. Something small. Quiet. Fierce.

No more letting them break me.

No more hiding.

I’ll join the racing club. Not as the President’s daughter.

But as a racer.

Aliyah’s POV

The wind nipped against my face as I stood before the grand, graffiti-laced gate of M Spring Boots Racing Club. The rusted hinges creaked as I pushed it open, revealing a row of glossy motorbikes lined like soldiers at war. Engines purred in the background, the smell of grease and rubber mixing with the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass.

My fingers curled tightly around the straps of my helmet. It felt like it weighed a thousand pounds on my palm. Every part of me wanted to turn around. But Papa’s words haunted me.

"You’re a loser if you give up with your life because of this downfall."

I walked in, ignoring the whispers. A few steps further, and the first mocking voice pierced the air.

"Look who decided to show up. The Omega with no wolf and a bruised ego."

More laughter followed. My back stiffened. The girls stood in clusters, draped in leather jackets, flaunting their sleek bikes and the arrogance that came with having a wolf form. Their eyes glinted with amusement. They weren’t just racers—they were predators. I was prey.

"Did you come to mop the floors or carry our helmets?" one of them sneered, her tail flicking in mockery.

"I heard she got dumped naked on the internet. Poor thing probably thinks racing will give her a new life."

"She doesn’t even have a tail or claws. How can she ride without instincts?"

Their howling laughter echoed across the yard. My hands trembled. I turned away, then paused. I could see my reflection in the glass of a nearby bike mirror—tears threatening to form, lips trembling.

No.

I thought of the clubhouse walls without our posters. Of Cohen’s smirk. Of my nude pictures on that cursed iPad. Of Papa’s hope-filled eyes.

I turned around.

"Enough," I said coldly.

The group went quiet. A few chuckled nervously, as if daring me to keep going.

"If I hear another word, I’ll personally kick you all out of this club."

The lead girl stepped forward. She was taller, more muscled, and the tattoo of her wolf crept over her collarbone.

"You and what army?" she asked, showing off her claws.

Inside, my heart pounded like war drums. But the rage within me was louder. I threw my helmet to the ground, rolled up my sleeves, and launched at her. She didn’t see it coming. The sound of my fist cracking against her jaw silenced the yard.

Then chaos erupted.

I didn’t know how many I punched, shoved, or kicked, but by the time I was done, three of them were groaning on the ground, two limping away, and my knuckles were raw and red.

"Stop!" a booming voice interrupted the madness.

I turned. Papa stood at the edge of the training yard, a wrench in one hand and a startled expression in his eyes.

"Aliyah!" he snapped.

I froze, breathing heavily. Sweat rolled down my spine.

"What happened to harmony? This isn’t a war zone. It’s a club."

I looked away, ashamed and defiant at the same time.

"Then tell your girls to stop acting like a pack of wolves hunting the last deer," I muttered.

He sighed and walked closer. Then, without warning, his face broke into a mischievous grin. He held up his phone.

"Guess what just came in?"

I blinked. "What?"

He handed it to me. On the screen was a bold, crimson-colored logo that read: Lycan's Edge Annual Tournament – Entry Opened.

My heart stuttered. Every biker in the region dreamed of it.

"They accepted our club," he said. "We’re in the preliminaries. And I want you to represent us."

"Me?" My eyes widened. "But I just started."

"You’re my daughter. You’ve got the spirit. Now get ready. Train harder. Show them what they couldn’t break."

The fire reignited in my chest. I nodded. That night, I trained till my muscles screamed. I rode around the practice field again and again, pushing myself to limits I didn’t know existed. Papa timed my laps, yelled instructions, adjusted my bike’s gears.

The insults faded. The fear dulled. All that remained was purpose.

Until he showed up.

I was oiling my bike when a familiar voice froze my blood.

"Aliyah."

Cohen.

I stood up slowly. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I turned to face him. He looked cleaner than the last time—his leather jacket crisp, hair brushed back, lips curled in that familiar smirk. The one I used to kiss like it was air.

"What do you want?" I asked, wiping my hands.

"Can we talk privately?"

I didn’t want to. Every fiber of me screamed no. But some foolish part of me hoped—hoped he’d say he was sorry. That it was a mistake. That he missed me.

We walked behind the garage, away from Papa’s gaze.

"What do you want, Cohen?"

He leaned closer, his cologne suffocating. "I heard you’re entering the tournament."

I said nothing.

He chuckled. "Don’t. Just… don’t. You’ll embarrass yourself. You’ll embarrass the club. Stay out of it."

I stepped back. "Is that a threat?"

"Call it advice. You’ll thank me later." He winked and walked away.

I stood there, seething. His words echoed like a curse.

But instead of breaking me, it did the opposite.

It fueled the fire.

I would ride. I would race. And I would win—not just for Papa. Not for revenge.

But to prove that no matter how many times they kicked me down…

…I would always rise.

The sun barely rose today. It was as though the heavens understood the weight of what was coming.

The tournament.

The one thing I had poured every drop of my soul into over the past weeks.

I sat at the edge of my narrow bed, lacing my boots with trembling hands. My stomach churned with hunger, but it wasn’t unfamiliar. For days now, I had starved myself just to make time for practice.

Aliyah’s POV

Skipped meals, slept in the club's garage, trained until I couldn’t feel my legs. I wanted to win—no, needed to win.

To silence the mockery. To prove I wasn’t just the president’s pitiful Omega daughter. To honor Papa.

I’d been to the Ember Pack stadium a few times growing up—always in the safety of Papa’s shadow—but today was different. Today, I was no longer in the shadows. I was at the center. Under the light. Under their judgmental stares.

The stadium roared with life as I stepped in. Banners flew in the wind. The strong scent of fuel and testosterone hung in the air. Tires screeched in practice laps and engines growled with power.

My throat dried up instantly.

I clutched my gloves tighter. I’ve been here before… but never this nervous.

My fingers trembled and I could feel my heartbeat in my teeth. Papa walked up to me, dressed in his racing gear, the club's crest proudly stamped across his chest. He placed a firm hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

“You’ll do just fine,” he said gently.

But I shook my head. “My heart is in turmoil, Papa. I don’t know… What if I fail you?”

He smiled. “Then fail trying, Aliyah. Don’t run. Don’t hide. Just try.”

Try.

The word echoed in my head like a drumbeat.

But that fragile resolve cracked the moment I saw them.

Cohen.

And behind him, his obnoxious pack of club members—The Black Fangs.

The crowd went wild as they strutted into the stadium like gods of speed. Every step they took seemed choreographed, every smirk practiced. They lived for this applause.

And then… I saw him.

Asher Moretti.

The one I swore I’d never want to lay eyes on again.

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t even notice I was there. But I saw him.

The way his hair curled beneath his helmet. The leather jacket clinging to his tall, massive frame. The same tattoo that once made me gulp in awe.

Now, it made me sick.

I felt bile rise in my throat.

I hate you, I whispered under my breath. You’re just like them. One of Cohen’s wolves. One of the animals who ruined me.

I stepped back, trying to make myself invisible, turning my face away so Cohen wouldn’t see me. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t strong enough.

But of course, he noticed.

“Look who it is!” Cohen’s voice rang out like a whip. “The star of our group chat.”

Laughter exploded from his club. I stiffened.

“Is that our dear Omega princess?” one of the girls sneered. “Did you bring more nudes to share?”

More laughter.

I clenched my fists so tightly that my nails pierced my palms.

Cohen’s wolfish grin curled wider. “Don’t be shy, Aliyah. You’ve shown us everything before.”

I froze.

Paralyzed.

Until two girls stepped forward—one brunette, one auburn-haired—fellow racers I had sparred with in training. They stood in front of me, backs stiff, glaring at Cohen.

“She’s not just an Omega,” the brunette snapped. “She’s an Omega with pride.”

“And more guts than any of you tail-wagging jackals,” the other growled.

Their words lifted something inside me… and yet, shame still wrapped around my throat like a collar.

All eyes were on me.

I could feel the jeers, the whispers, the camera phones pretending not to record.

My knees are weak… My chest hurts… I want to scream…

Then the horn blew—the tournament started soon.

Everyone began moving to their bikes.

And just then, Cohen swaggered toward me.

He bent close, lips nearly brushing my ear.

“Back off now… or you’ll lose your face very badly,” he whispered.

That was it.

The final shove.

My mind collapsed into chaos. I could see Papa from a distance, waving me over, motioning for me to get ready. I turned away.

What if I fail?

What if I crash out there?

Papa will be disappointed. I’ll be just another pathetic Omega who tried and embarrassed herself.

My body moved before I could stop it.

I dropped my helmet, spun on my heel, and ran.

I ran from the roars. From Cohen’s laughter. From Asher’s indifference.

From my own cowardice.

The light drizzle began just as I crossed the borders of Ember Pack. I didn’t stop running until the stadium was far behind, replaced by thick woods and silence.

Tears fell freely now.

I failed again…

I collapsed to the grass, wet, trembling, and ruined.

I failed Papa… the only man who ever cared. I failed the man who picked me up when my own mother threw me away.

The soft patter of rain mingled with my sobs.

I was alone.

Just a broken girl with no wolf, no courage, and no future.

Or so I thought.

The tide whispered softly against the pebbled shore as I dipped my line into the water. The breeze carried the scent of salt, pine, and something strangely calming. For the first time in what felt like centuries, my lungs expanded freely. No judgment. No whispers. No mocking eyes. Just me… and the fish that weren’t biting.

A week had passed since I ran away like a coward from the tournament. A whole week of avoiding Papa’s calls, of crying under the stars, of eating barely enough to stay conscious. I built this tiny shelter by the beach—my own little tented world—where I could pretend for a second that I wasn’t a disgrace. That I hadn’t failed the only man who believed in me. That I wasn’t the joke of Ember Pack.

My fingers toyed with the smooth reel of the fishing line, but my eyes remained fixed on the horizon. I hated the silence.