Fated to My Captor's Enemy: The Alpha Biker Who Bought My Freedom

Chapter 001 Chocolate and Cayenne

The bassline throbbed through the floor and up my spine like a second heartbeat. Smoke and cheap cologne hung thick in the air, mixing with spilled beer and the sour tang of desperation. I crawled across the stage on all fours, Lucite heels clicking, glitter mesh thong riding low on my hips. The lights were hot, merciless. They turned sweat into glitter and skin into something men thought they could buy.

I arched my back, let the bikini top slip down my arms. Bills fluttered onto the stage like dead leaves. My knees screamed—old damage, scar tissue grinding bone on bone—but I kept the smile painted on, the one that said I loved every second of this. Three years of practice made it easy. Three years of knowing what happened if I didn’t.

Then it hit me.

Chocolate. Bergamot. Cayenne. Gun oil and leather underneath, sharp and clean.

My wolf exploded inside my chest. MATE. MATE. MATE. The word hammered against my ribs, frantic, starving. Five years since I’d smelled him. Five years since I’d let myself even think his name.

Jade.

My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the top completely. I caught it at the last second, pressed it to my chest like armor. The crowd roared, thinking it was part of the act. They had no idea I was coming apart right in front of them.

I finished the set on autopilot. Spun around the pole. Dropped low. Rose slow. Every move I’d done a thousand times before, but now each one felt like betrayal. My wolf clawed at the inside of my skin, trying to force the shift, trying to launch me off the stage and into the dark where that scent waited.

I couldn’t look. If I looked and saw him, I’d break. If Waylon saw me look, he’d know something was wrong. And Waylon always noticed.

The music cut. Applause crashed over me. I scooped up the cash, stuffed it into the garter, and walked off on legs that felt borrowed. The hallway backstage was cooler, dimmer. I made it to the dressing room before my knees buckled.

I slammed the door, leaned my forehead against the mirror. The glass was cold. My reflection looked like a stranger—too much makeup, too little everything else.

My wolf whined, pacing in tight circles inside me. She wanted out. Wanted him. Wanted to run until we found that scent again and buried our face in his neck.

I couldn’t let her. Not here. Not ever.

I gripped the edge of the vanity, counted breaths the way the pack therapist taught me before Dad sold me off. In four, hold four, out four. My pulse slowed, but the scent lingered in my nose like smoke.

Five years ago I’d been eighteen, stupid, and in love. Jade Regan had walked into the Houston studio where I took extra classes, all quiet confidence and shoulders that filled doorways. Three months. That’s all we got. Three months of stolen kisses behind the barre, his hands careful on my waist while I showed him how to spot a pirouette. Three months of him smelling like home.

Then Dad found the texts.

“You’re going to Juilliard,” he’d snarled, face red, veins standing out in his neck. “And you’re never seeing that mongrel again. Or I swear to God, Sloane, I’ll break your legs myself so you never dance another day in your life.”

He hadn’t needed to break them. Waylon did that later, slowly, over years of forcing me onto stages with shoes that weren’t made for damaged knees.

Dad had bigger problems than my love life anyway. His Ponzi scheme collapsed six months after I left for New York. Creditors came knocking. One of them was Waylon Krueger, Alpha of the Morgantown pack. Dad offered me to settle the debt. Waylon accepted.

Three years of service, he’d said. Three years and the debt would be clear.

It’s been three years, two months, and eleven days.

I still wasn’t free.

A knock at the door. Soft. “Sloane? You okay in there?”

Angel. Bouncer’s girlfriend, house mom when she felt like it. She was human, didn’t know what I was, but she’d seen enough girls break in this place to recognize the signs.

“I’m good,” I called. My voice only cracked a little.

“You sure? Waylon’s asking for you.”

My stomach dropped. “Yeah. Be right out.”

I fixed my face in the mirror. More lipstick. More glitter to hide the shake in my hands. The girl looking back at me could survive anything. She’d had practice.

The door opened without another knock.

Waylon filled the frame, cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket. That sharp medicinal aftershave burned my nose, trying to cover the pack scent underneath. It never quite worked.

His eyes raked over me, slow and possessive. “Performance was sloppy tonight.”

“Sorry, sir.” Automatic. Always automatic.

He stepped inside, closed the door with a soft click that sounded like a lock. His hand found my ass, squeezed hard enough to bruise. “Distracted. I don’t like distracted.”

I stayed still. Let him touch. Let him think I didn’t mind.

“You’re going to the VIP room,” he said against my ear. “Right now.”

His fingers dug into my hip, steering me out into the hallway. Past the other girls. Past the bar where the music still pounded. Down the narrow corridor to the black door with the gold lettering.

He unlocked it. Pushed me inside.

The VIP room was cold. Always cold. Black lights made the velvet couches glow purple, made my skin look corpse-pale. A single pole in the center. Mirrors on every wall so no matter where you stood, you couldn’t escape yourself.

Waylon locked the door behind us.

“Strip.”

I did. Top first, then the thong. Folded them neatly on the couch because he hated mess. The air raised goosebumps across my skin.

“Dance.”

I went to the pole. Wrapped my legs around it. Spun slow. My knees protested every bend, but I didn’t let it show. He sat in the biggest chair, legs spread, watching like he owned gravity itself.

Because he did, in this room.

After a few minutes he crooked a finger. “Enough. Come here.”

I dropped to my hands and knees. Crawled across the rug. The fibers burned my palms and damaged joints, but I kept my eyes down until I reached his boots.

“Look at me.”

I looked.

His zipper was already down. He was hard, heavy in his hand. “Open.”

I opened.

He fed himself into my mouth slow, letting me feel every inch. When I gagged, he held my head still and pushed deeper.

“Take it all the way down your throat, little slave. Swallow my cock like you mean it.”

I did. Tears ran down my cheeks, mascara bleeding black. My wolf raged inside me, snapping and clawing, but the human part stayed kneeling. Survival first. Always survival.

He used my hair like reins, setting the pace. Faster. Harder. Until my jaw ached and my throat burned and I couldn’t breathe around him.

When he came, he pulled out at the last second. Hot stripes across my face, my chest. Marked me like territory.

He tucked himself away, zipped up. Patted my cheek almost gently. “Good girl. You make me a lot of money, Sloane.”

I stayed on my knees, cum cooling on my skin.

He leaned down, voice low. “If you ever think about running, you know what I’ll do to Macy.”

The threat landed exactly where he wanted it. Straight to the gut.

“Yes, sir.”

He left me there. Door clicked shut. Lock turned.

I stayed on the floor a long time. Until the shaking stopped. Until I could stand.

There was a small bathroom attached. I cleaned myself with wet wipes and cheap soap that smelled like fake lemons. Scrubbed until my skin felt raw but the scent of him still clung.

Back in the dressing room, the club was winding down. Last call echoes through the walls. I pulled on sweats, stuffed the night’s cash into my purse.

Angel caught me at the exit. “That cowboy and his friend left an hour ago. Big tipper. Asked about the headliner.”

My heart stuttered.

“You tell him anything?”

“Just your stage name. He didn’t ask for more.”

Relief and disappointment twisted together so tight I couldn’t tell them apart.

Outside, the night air was cold enough to burn my lungs. Waylon’s building loomed across the street—my apartment on the third floor, cameras in every hallway.

I crossed the parking lot slow, knees throbbing with each step.

Jade had been here. Close enough to smell. Close enough that my wolf still howled for him.

I was glad he’d gone.

But deep down, in the place I didn’t let myself look very often, I hoped he’d come back.

For me.