4. Alaina
CHAPTER 4
ALAINA
Mornings at the bakery usually start with the smell of fresh bread, the quiet hum of the ovens, and the comforting warmth of a new day.
Not today.
No, today, I step into my bakery and find the floor covered in water.
The sharp, metallic scent of damp wood and mildew slaps me in the face as I wade forward, my sneakers instantly soaked through. The soft glow of the street-lamps outside casts long reflections in the standing water, making the kitchen look twice as bad as it probably is. At least I hope it’s not as bad as it looks.
I curse under my breath, my heart hammering. The source of the flood is obvious—the cabinet beneath the sink is wide open, water gushing from a busted pipe like a damn fire hydrant.
My stomach twists at the sight. Water damage is no joke. The wooden floors, the electric ovens, the expensive ingredients—everything is at risk. And worse, this isn’t the kind of setback I can afford right now. I make enough out of the shop to support myself and pay Kelly a salary, but I don’t have the kind of savings to literally replace my entire shop.
“Great. Just perfect,” I mutter, dropping my bag onto the counter and rushing to shut off the water valve. My hands are slick as I grip the knob and twist, cursing again when it fights me before finally stopping the flow. The sudden silence is deafening, the steady gurgle of escaping water cut off like a choked-off scream.
I stand there for a second, water dripping from my fingertips, my stomach sinking. This is bad. Really bad. If the floors warp, I’ll be in serious trouble. If the ovens short-circuit from the moisture, I’ll be down for days. And days without my bakery means losing money I don’t have to spare.
A breath shudders through me, and I force myself to move. I grab a mop from the back and start pushing water toward the door, the sound of wet slaps against tile filling the air. The longer I work, the more the frustration builds, swirling in my chest like a storm cloud ready to burst.
Then, reality sets in. I don’t have the means to fix this on my own.
I need help. As much as I don’t want to call him, I know this is a time I have to. It’s funny how as little kids asking our family for support is second nature. Then growing and maturing, we want to do things independently as if these people didn’t help us in the damn beginning. Why it bothers me to ask for help, I don’t know, but it’s absolutely the last thing I ever want to do.
I pull out my phone and press the call button, pacing the length of the kitchen as the ring tone drones on. It’s early, but Dedushka has always been an early riser. Even though his business requires him to put in some late nights, he is always up when the sun comes up. Sure enough, he answers on the second ring.
"Dedushka," I sigh the moment my grandfather’s familiar voice rumbles in my ear. "I have a problem.”
I can almost hear the smile, “okay, what kind of problem? It’s important to start there.”
Thank goodness he knows me well. I tend to get in a panic first, then calm down and get my head on straight. “I know you got me in this location. I don’t have a lease with you. Do you own the building?" I ask knowing I never asked him if I was under a lease or not. “Or do you rent this for me?”
I know. I know. As a business owner I should know these things. Every detail. But this is my grandfather. He said I have the perfect location. He paid all the payments to get things started. I know what I pay in rent isn’t covering a mortgage on the building or the rent if he doesn’t own it.
A pause.
"Good morning to you too, Alaina." His voice is warm despite the early hour.
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose thinking I’ve been so rude. "Morning. But seriously, do you own it or am I supposed to call someone else?"
I hate not knowing what to do. I got so excited starting the bakery five years ago, I didn’t ask any questions and well, I’ve been busy establishing it, I never thought to ask anything from anyone. Now, I actually have a problem and no solutions.
There’s another pause, longer this time.
"I’ll send someone," he finally says.
My brows furrow. "Wait—you own it? Do you want me to call my own plumber then?" I rent my apartment. I know if something breaks I call the office and they cover the repairs. If my grandfather owns the building then I’ll get the plumber and pay the costs. He is already taking care of enough for me. I feel dumb not knowing who I should call or who even owns the building I’m in. If it isn’t his building, I don’t want to get either one of us in trouble for not using their designated service people.
Another pause. “I’ll send someone."
“But,” he cuts me off as I try to offer to cover the cost.
A long sigh, “I said I’d send someone. I can’t call someone else if I’m on the phone with you Ally. Just clean up what you can and I’ll have someone to you within the hour.”
The call disconnects before I can argue.
I huff, staring at my phone like it personally betrayed me. That was... vague. But at least someone is coming to fix the damn pipe. I just hope they show up soon because the more I look at the water pooling around my feet, the more my nerves start to fray.
A half hour later, just as I finish pushing water toward the back door with the mop, the low, rolling rumble of motorcycles stops me in my tracks. I straighten, heart skipping a beat as I wipe the sweat from my forehead. That sound is unmistakable. It’s the Kings of Anarchy.
The engines cut off outside, leaving behind an eerie stillness. A moment later, heavy boots crunch against gravel. My breath quickens as the front door swings open, and two men step inside, filling the space with nothing but their sheer size and presence.
They’re both dressed the same—jeans, black shirts, and leather vests. But it’s the patches that catch my attention.
The name tags on their vests read DIPSHIT. Both of them.
I’ve seen that on the social media sites. Some men are into public humiliation as a form of kink. I don’t get it myself. I want a man who is all man.
An alpha male.
I have to make enough decisions in my business. To have a partner who simply reads me and takes care of things. From the easy parts of the day to what we are having for a dinner to the harder parts like a broken down car. I want to experience a masculine male who isn’t intimidated by the independence I crave in my business, but the partnership I need in my home. I want a man who will clean the toilet if I ask, but also spank my ass, call me pretty, and pull my hair from behind to remind me who is in charge.
I blink. My brain scrambles for an explanation, but before I can even process that, my gaze drops to the single patch at the bottom of those vests
PROSPECT.
Oh.
Oh, no.
My stomach twists as I take an instinctive step back, my pulse spiking. These aren’t just random bikers. They’re Kings—and not full members or whatever. I’ve seen the shows. I know enough about motorcycle clubs to get me in trouble. Fantasies are fun, but they are never reality.
That said if what I do know is true. Prospects do the dirty work. They haven’t earned their place yet, which means they have something to prove. That alone makes them dangerous. People with something to earn have a drive. A push from inside them that may mean success at all costs. Drive is good, but the at all costs part can mean a plethora of problems.
One of them—a tall, lean guy with shaggy brown hair and sharp eyes—grins, flashing a dimple that should be charming but somehow isn’t. Instead it’s almost menacing.
"Morning, sugar," he drawls, his voice dripping with amusement. "Heard you needed a plumber."
The second man, bulkier with a shaved head and arms covered in full sleeve tattoos thick with muscle, just crosses his arms and stares. His silence is somehow more unnerving than the first guy’s smirk.
I tighten my grip on the mop handle, my throat dry.
"I—I called my grandfather," I manage, trying to keep my voice steady. "I was expecting—” I shake my head. “I don’t know who.” I end up whispering the last part.
I know my grandfather owns The Velvet Hall, a small strip club and the Kings are always there. No, I don’t go in his business. He wouldn’t like that, but I drive by to get home and on my late nights, he is open. There is always motorcycles out front, no less than three on any given night.
I guess they have a plumbing business so grandpa decided to give them his business. At least that is what I tell myself.
"Yeah, yeah," the lean one cuts in, still grinning. "He sent us."
I hesitate. "He sent you ?"
"That’s what I said," he replies easily.
"My grandfather owns this building. I don’t want to insult you, but are you a licensed plumber. I know he would want the job done right the first time.” God, this sounds awful, but something about them being here has me on edge.
The grin widens, turning downright smug.
"Does he?" The taller one winks, “Sugar, we can do any job you need us to. For Konstantin or for you.”
A sick feeling curls in my stomach. There’s something about the way he says it, something I don’t like. I fumble for my phone, pressing the call button before I even register what I’m doing. My grandfather picks up on the first ring.
"Dedushka," I whisper, stepping toward the kitchen to put some space between me and the two men. "Why are there bikers in my bakery?"
A heavy sigh filters through the speaker.
"Ally…"
"Dedushka," I repeat, heart hammering. "You own my building, right?" I don’t know why I keep asking this.
Silence.
Then, finally?—
"No, Ally," he admits. "The Kings own your building. I pay the rent. They gotta do things their way.”
The world tilts.
I grip the edge of the counter, feeling like I just stepped into a reality I don’t understand.
"Wait—what?" I breathe.
"The Kings own many things in this town," he says gently. "Including The Velvet Hall’s building. I didn’t tell you before because you were happy there, and it mattered not. But I promise you, I wouldn’t have sent them if you weren’t safe. They’re gonna fix your sink, and then they will leave."
I stare at the floor, my mind struggling to keep up.
My bakery—the place I built from the ground up, the place I thought was mine—is owned by an outlaw motorcycle club.
A club that makes me uncomfortable.
A club that’s been coming in here more and more lately.
A club that’s standing in my kitchen, waiting for me to let them fix my broken pipe.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe.
"Ally?" my grandfather says softly.
I close my eyes for a second, blocking out the overwhelming reality of the situation. Then, I straighten.
"Fine," I mutter. "But I’m watching them the entire time."
One of the men—Dipshit #1—winks at me from across the room.
"Looking forward to it, sugar."
I groan.
Today is going to be long .