Claimed By The Ruthless Biker

CHAPTER THREE

Ava's POV

"Nobody."

The lie left my mouth too quickly.

I knew he heard it because his eyes sharpened like a blade being turned toward the light.

"Nobody," he repeated.

I lifted my chin even though my throat felt tight. "That's what I said."

The bar became too quiet.

Even the jukebox seemed to have lost its courage. The low music still played from the corner but it sounded far away now, buried under the weight of every stare in the room.

Cain stood in front of me, close enough that I could see the dark ink climbing from his wrist to his forearm. Thick lines. Strange shapes. A number half-hidden under the edge of his sleeve.

His hands were at his sides, not touching me. Still, I felt trapped.

"People who are running from nobody don't look like that," he said.

I swallowed. "Like what?"

His gaze moved over my face like he was reading a wound I had not shown him.

"Like the door behind them is still open," he said.

My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag. "That sounds poetic. You write warning signs for a living too?"

A rough laugh came from somewhere near the pool table. But it died the second Cain looked that way.

I should have been scared of how easily he commanded silence.

I actually was.

But another part of me, the part that had spent months praying somebody would notice without asking me to explain, hated that he noticed so much.

"I said I'm not running from anyone," I told him.

"No," Cain said. "You said nobody."

I stared at him. "Is there a difference?"

"There always is."

The bartender behind the counter shifted slightly, her red nails tapping once against the wood. She was watching me with something almost like pity, and I hated that too.

Pity made me feel small. And I had been small for too long.

"I just need somewhere to stay until morning," I said, forcing my voice steady. "Or a mechanic. Or both. I can pay."

A man at the bar snorted. "Can you?"

My eyes cut toward him.

He was older than the first one. Grey beard. Thick arms. A leather cut stretched over his shoulders. His grin was lazy but his eyes were not.

"That little bag doesn't look like it carries much," he said.

My cheeks burned. Before I could answer, another voice came from the back, careless and mean. "Maybe she can pay another way."

The room froze as Cain turned his head.

The man who had spoken sat near the wall with one boot propped on an empty chair. His smile slipped before he could hide it.

"What?" the man muttered. "I was joking."

Cain did not move for a second.bThen he walked.

The floorboards barely made a sound under his boots. That somehow made it worse. A man that big should have been loud. He should have announced himself with every step.

Cain did not.

People moved out of his way before he reached them.

The man near the wall lowered his boot from the chair.

"Cain," he said, lifting both hands. "Come on."

Cain stopped beside him.

The air in the bar changed again, drawing tighter around my lungs.

"You got something to say to her?" Cain asked.

The man's eyes flicked to me, then away. "No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Cain leaned down slightly and it was enough to make the man shrink.

"Then don't use your mouth near her again."

My stomach dipped just then.

They should not have carried across the room but they did. Every man heard them. Every man understood them.

So did I.

I should have felt relieved.

Instead, anger came hot and sudden through the fear.

Cain straightened and turned back to me. His expression had not changed but something had been decided. Decided.

I felt it before he said a word.

He crossed the room and stopped beside me. His shoulder was near mine, wide and warm and solid, and the whole bar looked at us differently.

My heart started to pound.

"What are you doing?" I whispered.

Cain did not look at me.

He looked at the room.

"She's with me."

Three words.

That was all.

No explanation. No threat. No raised voice.

But the silence that followed was so complete it felt like the building itself had gone still.

The bartender's lips parted.

The grey-bearded man at the bar looked down into his drink.

The first drunk, the one who had blocked the door, leaned back in his chair and suddenly found the floor interesting.

My skin went cold.

Then hot.

Then cold again.

I turned to Cain slowly. "Excuse me?"

His eyes remained on the room. "You heard me."

"I am not with you."

"Tonight, you are."

A sound escaped me. Half laugh. Half disbelief. "No."

Cain finally looked down at me. Up close, he was worse. Way worse.

The scar through his brow pulled slightly when his eyes narrowed. His jaw looked like it had been carved from stone and then taught to be angry. He smelled faintly of smoke, leather and something clean underneath that I did not want to notice.

"No?" he asked.

"No," I snapped. "You don't get to stand beside me and announce ownership like I'm a misplaced jacket."

Something moved in his eyes but I couldn't tell what it was.

"You'd rather they think you're alone?"

"I am alone."

"That's the problem."

My breath caught.

I hated him for saying it.

I hated myself more for feeling the truth of it.

The men in the room were no longer looking at me the way they had when I came in. Their stares had shifted from hunger to caution. From curiosity to calculation.

Because of him.

Because he had said three words.

She's with me.

I stepped away from Cain. "I don't belong to anyone."

His gaze followed me. "Good."

I blinked. "Good?"

"You shouldn't."

"Then why did you say that?"

"Because they do."

I looked around the bar, noticing how no one met my eyes for long.

Cain's voice lowered, meant for me now. "You can hate me later. For tonight, you need them to believe it."

My anger faltered only for a second. Then I held onto it harder. "I don't need you to save me."

"No," he said. "You need a locked door and sleep."

The word sleep nearly broke something in me. Because I was tired. So tired that my bones felt hollow. Tired of driving. Tired of looking over my shoulder. Tired of pretending my hands did not shake when men spoke too calmly.

But I would rather collapse standing than admit that to Cain Harlow.

"I'm not staying here," I said.

"Car's dead."

"I'll walk."

"Road's dark."

"I've walked in the dark before."

His face tightened. I saw it and wished I had not.

"You got money?" he asked.

My pride rose before my answer did.

"Yes."

"How much?"

"That's none of your business."

"You got enough for a room somewhere else?"

I said nothing. And I knew he knew the truth.

Cain turned toward the bartender. "Mara."

He didn't need to say more. Mara reached beneath the counter and pulled out an old brass key attached to a wooden tag. Room 4 was scratched into it.

My eyes went to the key.

"No," I said immediately.

Cain took it from her. "Room upstairs. Door locks from the inside."

"I said no."

"You can leave in the morning."

"I can leave now."

"You can," he said.

The calmness of it stopped me. He held the key out, not moving closer, not forcing it into my hand.

"You can walk out now," he continued. "Nobody here will touch you."

His eyes moved briefly over the room. Every man suddenly looked very busy doing nothing.

"Not tonight," he added.

My mouth went dry.

Not tonight.

The words should have comforted me.

They did not.

Because tonight would end. Morning would come. Cain could not stand beside me forever, and I did not want him to.

I looked at the key again. My fingers ached from gripping my bag.

Mara's voice softened. "Take the room, sweetheart."

I looked at her.

She gave a small shrug. "You don't have to trust him. Trust the lock."

That almost made me laugh. Cain's arm remained extended, the key resting in his rough palm.

I took it without touching his skin. Still, I felt the heat of him.

"I'm paying for it," I said.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

My eyes narrowed. "Do you always answer women like that?"

Mara made a small sound behind the bar that might have been a laugh.

Cain's mouth did not move, but something flickered in his eyes. "Only stubborn ones."

"I'm not stubborn."

"You're shaking and still arguing with me."

I looked down.nMy hand was indeed trembling around the key.

Oh shit, I thought as I closed my fist until the metal bit into my palm.

Cain saw that too.

I was starting to think Cain Harlow saw everything.

"I'm not your problem," I said quietly.

"No," he replied. "You're in my bar."

"As if that makes a difference."

"It does here."

I did not know what to say to that.

The room had started breathing again. Low conversations returned in pieces but quieter than before. A glass clinked. A chair creaked. The jukebox crackled through a new song.

Still, I felt marked.

I didn't know how to feel about that even as Cain stepped toward the staircase at the back of the room and said with a gruff voice, "Come on."

I did not move.

He stopped and looked back.

"I can find it myself," I said.

His eyes dropped to my bag, then to my face. "I know."

"Then why are you waiting?"

"Because Rafe is still looking at you."

My spine stiffened but I refused to turn around.

Cain's gaze shifted past me in a cold silent manner. A chair scraped. Then nothing. Cain looked at me again. "Now he's not."

I hated the small rush of relief that went through me.

I hated it so much I walked past him quickly just to escape it.

The staircase was narrow and steep. The railing was old wood, smooth in some places, splintered in others. The walls were covered in faded posters for bands I had never heard of and black-and-white photos of motorcycles lined up under stormy skies.

Cain followed behind me, close enough that I knew no one else would.

At the top, a dim hallway stretched ahead. Four doors. Yellow light. A small round window at the far end showing nothing but dark glass and fog.

Cain pointed to the last door on the left. "Room four."

I stopped outside it and shoved the key into the lock.

My hand slipped the first time. Then again. Cain said nothing.

That made it worse.

"Don't," I snapped.

"I didn't."

"You were about to."

"No."

I finally got the door open and pushed inside.

The room was small but clean. A narrow bed. A wooden chair. A chipped dresser. A lamp with a crooked shade. One window with thin curtains. The air smelled faintly of soap, old wood, and rain.

No luxury. No softness. But it had four walls, a door, a lock. That was enough.

My throat tightened.

Cain was in the hallway when I turned to face him. "What do you want?"

His brows drew together. "Nothing."

"No one does this for nothing."

He studied me for a moment.

Then his eyes moved, not to my mouth or my body, but to the hand gripping my bag like it was the last piece of my life.

"Lock the door," he said.

"That's it?"

"Lock it."

"And then what?"

"Sleep."

I laughed softly. "You make it sound easy."

"It isn't."

The honesty of that silenced me.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Downstairs, a burst of rough laughter rose and died quickly. Somewhere outside, wind pushed against the side of the building. The window gave a faint rattle.

I should have closed the door.

I did not.

Cain's eyes held mine.

"Why?" I asked.

His face remained unreadable. "Why what?"

"Why protect me?"

The hallway seemed to grow colder. Cain's jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he would answer.

Instead, he stepped back.

"Lock the door, Ava."

My name again. Like he knew it. Like it had already been in his mouth before tonight.

A chill moved through me.

"How do you say my name like that?" I whispered.

Cain did not answer. He simply turned and walked away.

I stood in the doorway, watching his broad back disappear down the hall and then down the stairs. Only when I could no longer hear his boots did I shut the door.

I locked it. Then I checked it. Then I checked it again.

The room was too quiet.

I set my bag on the bed but did not open it. I sat beside it, still wearing my boots, the key pressed into my palm so hard it left marks.

Sleep did not come.

I kept my eyes on the door.

Hours passed that way. Or minutes. Time had gone strange on me.

My body begged me to lie down but fear kept me upright.

Because I did not understand Cain Harlow.

I did not understand why a dangerous stranger would stand between me and a room full of men.

I did not understand why he claimed me like a possession and then did not touch me.

I did not understand why his voice made me feel safer and more afraid at the same time.

And I did not understand why, when he looked at me, it felt less like he was meeting me...

And more like he had been waiting for me.

Who was he, I wondered with a rapid heartbeat in my chest.

Who was he really?