The Biker Alpha's Secret Baby

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.