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?"

Sloane POV:

Sterling kept hammering on the door, screaming my name. Tack leaned casually against the peeling wallpaper, crossing his massive arms over his chest. He looked like he was settling in for a show. I yanked the thin motel sheet tighter around my body, my mind racing through my contingency plans.

Tack curled a finger at me. "Come here." His low rumble demanded absolute obedience.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping toward him, seeking the physical shield of his massive frame.

He reached out, catching a strand of my tangled hair between his rough fingers, and brought it to his nose. "Chanel No. 5. Doesn't smell like the kind of perfume that belongs in a shithole like this." His voice was a low, probing drawl that stripped away my defenses. He was dissecting the scene, reading the calculated setup in my eyes. A chill raced down my spine. I thought I had hired a blunt instrument, but Tack was a razor-sharp predator.

"People like to try new things," I countered, keeping my voice steady.

Another violent kick rattled the door frame. Tack's eyes darkened. His amusement vanished, replaced by the territorial irritation of a beast whose cage had been kicked.

He uncrossed his arms, took two long strides to the door, and yanked it open. Sterling, mid-kick, stumbled forward and nearly face-planted on the cheap carpet.

Two men in sharp black suits stood behind Sterling, flanked by a few of his sycophantic cousins. They all froze, staring wide-eyed at the towering, heavily tattooed man blocking the doorway.

Tack leaned against the doorjamb, looking down at Sterling with absolute disdain. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Sterling recovered his balance, his eyes darting from Tack's faded jeans to the Harley parked outside. A sneer twisted his face. He thought he was dealing with street trash.

"I'm looking for Sloane Reynolds. Tell that cheap whore to get her ass out here!" Sterling demanded, puffing out his chest.

Tack let out a dark chuckle. He shifted his weight, stepping slightly to the side to reveal me standing behind him, clutching the bedsheet.

The collective gasp from the Kensington entourage was pure music to my ears. This was exactly what I wanted. A quiet breakup would have been swept under the rug, but a filthy, undeniable scandal was the only way to permanently sever my ties to this toxic family and the suffocating marriage. I bathed in their shock and disgust.

"Sloane! You filthy, shameless bitch!" Sterling's face turned a mottled purple, spit flying from his lips. "The night before our wedding, and you're spreading your legs for this gutter trash! You're nothing but a used-up whore!"

I dug my nails into my palms until they ached, forcing my eyes to widen and my shoulders to tremble. I had to play the broken victim.

A sudden shift in the crowd outside caught my attention. The bodyguards quickly parted. An elderly woman with silver hair, leaning heavily on a polished obsidian cane, stepped forward. She wore a tailored Chanel suit that cost more than this entire motel.

Genevieve Kensington. The true matriarch. The puppet master.

Her eyes, cold and reptilian, scanned me, then Tack, and finally landed on her grandson. "Is this how you handle family business, Sterling?" she snapped.

Sterling instantly deflated. "Grandmother, she... she betrayed me!"

Genevieve ignored him. She pointed her cane at me. "Put your clothes on, you disgusting little stray. You're coming with us to do damage control."

I held my ground. Tack stepped squarely in front of me, completely blocking her view. "I don't think so," he drawled. "I was highly satisfied with her services last night. I think she should stay right here."

A stunned, breathless silence fell over the walkway. People usually bowed and scraped before Genevieve Kensington.

Genevieve narrowed her eyes, studying Tack's cut and his ink. "Who exactly are you?"

"Just a guy who hates being interrupted," Tack said, unfazed.

One of Sterling's cousins gasped. "I know him! That's Kane Montgomery. The bastard son they kicked out. He runs with a biker gang now!"

The revelation hung in the air. Genevieve's lip curled in disgust. To her, Tack was nothing but a violent mistake.

"Jane's bastard boy," Genevieve scoffed, her voice dripping with venom. "I'll give you ten thousand dollars to crawl back to the gutter and forget you ever touched this trash."

Tack laughed. He pulled the black prepaid card I'd given him out of his pocket, flipping it between his knuckles. He shot a knowing, dangerous glance over his shoulder at me, fully aware he was the loaded gun in my orchestrated play. "Ten grand? Old lady, you're severely out of touch with current market rates."

Before Genevieve could respond, the screech of tires echoed through the parking lot. A van slammed to a halt, and four photographers jumped out, cameras flashing wildly. The anonymous tip I had scheduled to send to the tabloids worked perfectly.

Genevieve's composed mask cracked. Panic flared in her eyes.

A sleek Mercedes pulled up right behind the press. My adoptive parents, Arthur and Martha, spilled out, dragging my "sweet" sister Aubrey with them. Aubrey took one look at Sterling and immediately burst into perfectly timed tears.

Martha charged forward, pointing a shaking finger at me. "You ungrateful, diseased little slut!" she shrieked, her face twisted in pure hatred. "We took you out of the dirt, and this is how you repay us? You've ruined the White family name!"

Aubrey threw her arms around Sterling, burying her face in his chest while shooting me a triumphant, venomous glare over his shoulder.

The stage was set. I was surrounded by the crushing weight of the Kensington arrogance, the White family's toxic greed, and the flashing cameras.

I lowered my head, letting a single tear slip down my cheek.

Genevieve slammed her cane against the concrete. "Enough!" she barked, silencing the chaos. "Sloane Reynolds, you are a filthy embarrassment, no longer fit to breathe the same air as this family. The engagement is permanently severed. Aubrey will take your place."

Sterling and Aubrey exchanged a look of pure elation.

Beneath the sheet, my lips curved into a razor-sharp smile.

Sloane POV:

Genevieve's verdict hung in the air like a guillotine strike. Aubrey clung to Sterling's arm, her face a mask of fake sympathy masking pure greed. Martha looked at me like I was a stain on her shoes.

I kept my head bowed, my shoulders shaking. I needed them to think I was crushed. The deeper they dug this grave for me, the harder the dirt would hit them when I blew it up.

Genevieve dismissed me entirely. Her eyes darted to the photographers, who were still snapping pictures of the spectacle. "Handle them," she ordered her head of security. The suits moved in, shoving hands over camera lenses.

I had to seize control of the narrative. I took a tiny step backward, my bare back brushing against Tack's leather jacket.

"Fifty thousand," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the shouting. "Get me out of here. Now."

Tack looked down at me. His blue eyes were sharp, calculating the angles. He knew exactly what I was doing.

"A hundred," he murmured back.

"Deal."

Without warning, Tack's arm snaked around my waist. He hoisted me off the ground and threw me over his shoulder like a sack of grain. I let out a startled gasp, clutching the sheet to my chest as the cameras went into a frenzy.

"Stop him!" Genevieve shrieked.

The Kensington guards lunged. Tack held his ground, completely unfazed. He dropped me onto the leather seat of his Harley, his hand flashing to the small of his back. In a blur of motion, he pulled out a matte-black Glock and racked the slide. The sharp, metallic clack cut through the chaos like a knife.

He spun around, leveling the barrel dead center at the lead guard's chest, his eyes burning with a psychotic, violent joy.

"Who wants to bleed first?" he growled. The sheer, unhinged menace radiating from him-and the lethal weapon in his hand-made the trained guards freeze in their tracks, their hands instinctively rising in surrender.

Tack shoved the gun back into his waistband, swung his leg over the bike, and kicked the starter. The engine roared to life. He dumped the clutch, and we tore out of the parking lot, leaving Genevieve choking on our exhaust fumes.

I gripped his leather vest, the wind tearing at my hair. Once we hit the highway, I reached under the sheet, pulled out my burner phone, and hit Send.

"What the hell are you doing?" Tack yelled over the wind.

"Adding a little flavor to the morning news," I yelled back, a genuine, vicious smile breaking across my face.

Miles behind us, every reporter in that parking lot-and both Genevieve and Sterling-just received an anonymous link. The thumbnail was crystal clear: Sterling and Aubrey, tangled naked in a hotel bed, completely lost in each other.

Axel, my trusted fixer and right-hand man, had planted the hidden cameras in their favorite suite three days ago. I knew they would indulge in a celebratory fuck on the very morning they planned to ruin me.

I watched the road blur past, the crushing weight of the last four years lifting off my chest.

Tack brought us back to another motel. He kicked the door shut, leaned against the wall, and lit a cigarette. He watched me pull my laptop from my bag and start typing furiously. "You want to explain what just happened?"

"I just made you a hundred grand and gave you front-row seats to a slaughter," I said, keeping my eyes locked on the screen as I routed the video through three different offshore servers.

Tack walked over, blowing a stream of smoke past my ear, and looked at the screen. "Sterling Kensington and your sister. A sex tape." He let out a low whistle. "You're a ruthless little thing, aren't you?"

My burner phone vibrated. Unknown number. I turned to Tack, smiled at him, and said, "Would you like to see an even better performance?"

I answered it and put it on speaker.

"What do you want?" Genevieve's voice was ragged. The imperial matriarch was gone; this was a woman watching her empire catch fire.

"Me?" I feigned innocence. "Mrs. Kensington, I'm just a heartbroken girl betrayed by her fiancé and her sister."

"Cut the shit, Sloane. I know you leaked it. Name your price to scrub it from the internet."

"Scrub it? Oh, no. I want it on the six o'clock news." I laughed softly. "Unless..."

"Unless what?" she snapped.

I glanced at Tack. He was staring at me, his eyes dark and unreadable.

"Unless you call a press conference in one hour," I said, my voice turning to ice. "You will announce that the engagement is off because I ended things with a man who was sleeping with my sister."

"That will make us a laughingstock!" Genevieve hissed.

"Choose, Genevieve. A laughingstock, or a criminal investigation into Kensington Group's plummeting stock prices when this video hits the major networks?"

Silence stretched over the line.

"And one more thing," I added, locking eyes with Tack. "To prove I've moved on, you will publicly state that I am now under the protection of Kane Montgomery. You will call me his Old Lady."

Tack's jaw clenched. His eyes flared with a sudden, dangerous heat.