Claimed By The Rival Biker Boss

Amelia POV:

I pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the "chapel." The smell of judgment hit me first.

Every patched member of the Vipers MC sat around the long wooden table or leaned against the walls, their faces a mix of grim curiosity and open hostility. They were a jury that had already reached its verdict.

Douglas Wilkinson sat at the head of the table. My husband-my old man. The man I had spent six years of my life with. The club president whose books I had balanced, whose dirty money I had laundered into clean assets. And he wouldn't even meet my eyes.

In the shadowed corner, his mother, Brenda, sipped her whiskey. A small, satisfied smirk clung to her lips. For years, she had wanted me gone-not as her son's partner, but as a threat to her influence.

The Sergeant at Arms, a bear of a man named Tank, slammed a gavel down on the table. The sharp crack silenced the low murmurs.

Douglas finally stood, adjusting his VP patch in that nervous habit he had when he was about to lie or assert power he didn't feel he'd earned. "This Church has been called to address a matter of trust," he announced. "Specifically, the trust we place in an Old Lady."

From a raised booth, his sister, Cindy, leaned forward. Her red-nailed fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the wood. She caught my eye and mouthed a single word, her lips curling in a sneer: Pathetic. The raw jealousy she'd always harbored for my position was finally boiling over into triumph.

"Amelia, step forward," Douglas commanded.

My boots felt like lead, but I forced them to move. I clenched my fists at my sides, the nails digging into my palms, a small, sharp pain to anchor me.

He waited until I was directly in front of him. Then his hand shot out. He grabbed the front of my leather jacket, his fingers locking hard around the small rectangular patch sewn above my right chest. "Property of the Vipers MC."

The sound of tearing threads was obscenely loud in the silent room. I stumbled back a half-step, the force of the rip pulling me off balance. I locked my knees, refusing to fall, refusing to look down at the raw, empty space on my jacket.

"Your status as my Old Lady is revoked," Douglas declared, tossing the frayed patch onto the table like a piece of trash. "From this moment on, you're a sweetbutt. You'll have the club's protection so long as you know your place and keep your mouth shut."

A demotion. A public humiliation designed to break me, to turn me into one of the nameless, interchangeable women who floated around the clubhouse. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. The coppery taste of my own blood filled my mouth. I held his gaze, my eyes dead and empty, showing him nothing.

Near the door, a few of the younger sweetbutts snickered. I turned my head just enough to level a glare at them so cold, so utterly devoid of warmth, that their laughter died in their throats.

Douglas dismissed me with a flick of his hand, completely misreading the dangerous calm that had settled over me. He thought he had won. He thought he had discarded me.

I turned my back on him and the entire club. My boot heels echoed a steady, defiant rhythm as I walked out of the Church room, down the narrow hallway, and pushed through the back exit into the cold night air.

The chill on my face was a welcome shock, clearing the suffocating stench of the clubhouse from my lungs. I didn't go to my own bike. I walked straight toward Douglas's customized Harley and, parked next to it, his secondary pickup truck.

From the cuff of my boot, I pulled a small, flat key. A spare he'd forgotten I had years ago. The lock on the truck's heavy door clicked open quietly. I climbed into the cab, the familiar scent of him-oil, cheap cologne, and cigarettes-making my stomach clench. I clicked on a small penlight. My mind was already racing, replaying the discrepancies I'd noticed in last month's ledgers, the small, unexplained cash withdrawals I had let slide.

The glove compartment held nothing but old gas receipts and a half-empty pack of Marlboros. I moved on. Behind the driver's seat was a custom leather saddlebag he used for "sensitive" club documents. I knew the combination; I'd set it for him. My fingers, numb just moments before, moved with deft precision.

The lock clicked open. Beneath a pile of oily rags, I found it: a thick manila envelope.

My breath stalled. Inside, the first thing that slipped out was a glossy ultrasound photo. It fluttered onto the dusty floor mat. I picked it up. My eyes scanned the name printed at the top: 'Tammy - Baby Cody.' The date was from three months ago.

For a fraction of a second, the world tilted. Then, a sheet of pure, cold ice formed over my heart. I violently shoved the photo into my pocket. I dug deeper into the envelope. Bank transfer slips. Dozens of them. Steady cash flows from the Vipers' "war chest" account-the one I managed-to a private bank in Arizona.

I recognized the account numbers. It was the money. The money I had so carefully laundered for the club, the funds meant for emergencies, for bail, for the families of fallen brothers.

My phone came out. Flash off. I snapped high-resolution photos of every single document.

A crunch of gravel outside made me duck low, my heart hammering against my ribs. A prospect, his silhouette visible through the window, walked past, tossing a beer bottle into the weeds. He kept walking, completely oblivious.

I held my breath until he was gone. Carefully, I placed everything back exactly as I'd found it, locked the saddlebag, and wiped the door handle with my sleeve. I stepped out of the truck and locked it.

I stood in the dark, dusty lot and looked back at the flickering neon Vipers sign on the clubhouse wall. A dead-cold realization washed over me. They hadn't discarded me. They had just handed me the detonator.

I walked to my own beat-up motorcycle, kicked the engine to life, and its roar drowned out the muffled music from the bar. As I sped onto the interstate, a calendar reminder buzzed on my phone in my pocket. Brenda's Birthday Bash.

The countdown had just begun.