BONUS SAMPLE CHAPTER
KING’S CLAIM
Winter Sloane
Copyright ? 2025
Sample Chapter
The jukebox had been broken for three nights straight, which meant the only soundtrack inside The Pit Stop was the rattle of ice in cheap glasses and the buzz of a neon beer sign that refused to die.
Lena wiped down the counter for the third time in an hour, more out of nervous energy than necessity. Her feet ached in her scuffed sneakers, calves cramping after another twelve-hour shift.
The night was slow, but that didn’t mean she could sit. Rick, the absentee owner, had rules about bartenders looking “busy” even when there was nothing left to do.
Not that Lena needed to be reminded. Sitting meant thinking and thinking meant panic.
She’d been running numbers in her head all day, the tips, wages, what she might get if she pawned her grandmother’s locket. Her mother’s hospital bill loomed like a guillotine.
They’d been late last month, and the woman in billing had already given her a look that suggested compassion was running out. Lena had learned long ago that medical systems didn’t care about sob stories, only zeroes on the end of checks.
She scrubbed harder at a water ring, her throat tightening. If she could stretch this paycheck, if she begged Rick for one more shift, maybe she could cover at least part of it. Her mother deserved better than constant worry while she lay recovering.
The bell above the door jangled, and Lena’s head snapped up. The Pit Stop was practically empty, just two truckers nursing beers and a couple on the verge of an argument over the pool table. It was late enough she’d been hoping to close early.
Instead, three men stepped in, wearing smirks that never reached their eyes. Leather cuts with a snake coiled around a dagger stitched across their backs announced exactly who they were before she even saw the patch letters.
Iron Serpents MC. Her stomach clenched.
She’d heard stories. Everyone in town had. The Serpents weren’t the kind of bikers who bought a round of drinks, told loud stories, and rode out with a laugh. They were the kind who demanded payment for “protection,” who left tire tracks and blood in their wake.
The biggest of the three stalked toward the bar, heavy boots ringing against the sticky floorboards. He smelled of smoke and cheap whiskey, though she doubted he’d had a drink tonight. His eyes were sharp, glittering with the kind of mean focus only sober cruelty carried.
“Evenin’, sweetheart,” he drawled, leaning on the counter as if he owned it. His knuckles were bruised, a crude serpent tattoo twisting across one hand. “Pour us a round of whatever’s top shelf. On the house.”
Lena kept her face neutral, though her pulse skittered. She’d learned how to deal with drunks, with rowdy boys on Friday nights, with the occasional grabby hand. However, this was different. These men weren’t just customers. They were a threat wrapped in leather and arrogance.
Still, she reached for glasses, keeping her hands steady even as her chest tightened. “Top shelf isn’t free.”
The two at the back chuckled. The leader’s smirk widened.
“You’re a mouthy little thing, aren’t you?” He leaned closer, so near she caught the scent of stale tobacco on his breath. “We’re not asking. We’re collecting.”
“Collecting?” she repeated, though she already knew.
“Taxes,” one of the others said, voice slick with mockery. “Cost of doin’ business in Serpent territory. You want this place still standing next week, you pay.”
Her grip on the bottle tightened. Rick hadn’t warned her about this. He hadn’t told her the Serpents had come sniffing around. Maybe he thought his bar wasn’t worth their attention, or maybe he hadn’t cared. He was never the one left on late shifts dealing with trouble.
“I don’t own the place,” she said, carefully even. “You’ll have to talk to Rick about that.”
The leader laughed, low and mean. “Funny thing, sweetheart. We didn’t ask for Rick. We asked you.”
Her pulse thudded. “I don’t have money,” she stated.
“You’ve got somethin’ better.” His gaze swept her slowly, deliberately, pausing at her chest, then dropping lower. The way his eyes lingered made her skin crawl. “Why don’t you smile pretty, pour those drinks, and maybe we work out a ... payment plan.”
The others snickered.
Heat flushed her cheeks, but not the kind he wanted. Lena forced herself to set the bottle down instead of smashing it against his face like her instincts demanded. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head. Pick your battles, baby. Survive first, fight later.
Her jaw tightened. “Get out.”
The laughter cut off. The man’s eyes went cold, mean glint sharpening like a blade. He leaned in until his shadow swallowed her across the bar.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You don’t tell the Serpents no. Not unless you’re looking to bleed.”
Behind him, one of the others grabbed a handful of peanut shells from a bowl and crushed them in his fist, letting the crumbs scatter across the floor. A silent message. This could be you.
Lena’s heart hammered, but she refused to back up. She’d spent too many nights holding her mother’s hand, promising everything would be okay, swearing she’d keep them safe. She might be terrified, but she wasn’t going to give these men the satisfaction of seeing it.
“Last call’s in ten minutes,” she said flatly. “Drink or leave.”
The leader barked out a sharp laugh, his gaze glittering with something darker than amusement. Then his eyes raked her again, slower this time, hungry.
“You got fire. I like fire.” He licked his lips, smirk curling. “Bet you’d burn real sweet in bed.”
The words hit like a slap. The truckers at the far end of the bar kept their heads down, pretending they didn’t hear. No one wanted to draw Serpent attention.
Her hands trembled, but Lena curled them into fists at her sides. If she said the wrong thing, they could destroy the bar. If she gave in, they’d destroy her. She was trapped between two impossible choices.
For one raw second, she wished foolishly, desperately, that someone else would walk through that door. Anyone. Because the Serpents weren’t leaving without taking something from her.
The decision was snatched away before she could make it.
The bar door slammed open with a bang that rattled the frame, sharp as a gunshot. A gust of cold night air swept inside, curling cigarette smoke and exhaust into the room. Men followed, shadows cut from leather and steel.
They didn’t just enter. They occupied.
The one at the front was impossible to miss. He moved like gravity bent around him, drawing all eyes without effort. His cut bore a patch Lena knew too well from whispered warnings around town. The Devil’s Crown MC.
King Maddox.
The name rolled unspoken through the silence. She’d never seen him up close, only heard stories. Whispers of the things he’d done to earn that crown on his back, the way he’d built his throne with blood and fire. None of those stories had captured the sheer force of his presence.
King was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark beard framing a jaw carved from stone. His eyes swept the room like a predator sizing prey. When his gaze caught hers across the bar, Lena felt it land heavy, a brand pressed to her skin. She looked away too quickly, pulse skittering.
Then his attention shifted to the Serpent looming over her.
“You’re in my chair,” King said. His voice was low, a rough drag of gravel and steel.
It wasn’t a chair. It was just space, her space, but the way he spoke, the claim in his tone, made it sound sacred.
The Serpent sneered, shoulders squaring. “Didn’t know the Devil’s Crown gave a damn about some dive bar.”
“We don’t,” King replied, stepping closer. The weight of each step was deliberate, final. “But we give a damn when innocent people get dragged into your shit.”
Before the Serpent could respond, King’s hand shot out.
Lena startled at the speed of it. One second the Serpent stood smirking and the next he was slammed against the bar, King’s grip locked around his throat. Glass rattled on the shelves as the man choked, clawing at the iron grip crushing his windpipe.
The brutality was efficient, almost casual. King didn’t yell or posture. He simply applied violence the way other men breathed. His expression barely shifted, only those hard eyes narrowing as he leaned in.
“Ask me again if I give a damn,” he said, voice steady as if they were discussing the weather.
The other Serpents moved, but King’s men surged forward, too, leather and steel colliding with bone. One Serpent went down in a blur of fists, the crunch of bone splitting the air.
Another was hurled into a table, wood splintering beneath the weight of impact. The couple playing pool scrambled away. The truckers in the corner kept their heads low, wisely pretending none of this existed.
Lena pressed back against the shelves, heart pounding so hard she thought it might break through her ribs. Fear shivered through her veins, sharp and electric. But under it, something hotter pulsed, something she didn’t want to name.
King was terrifying. Brutal. Exactly the kind of man who destroyed everything he touched. Yet the way he moved, the control, the certainty that he owned the room, lit a spark low in her stomach that shamefully felt like hunger.
The Serpent in King’s grasp rasped out a strangled sound that might have been surrender. King released him suddenly, and the man collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, wheezing like he might vomit.
“Pick him up,” King ordered. His voice was calm, cold. “Show the rats the gutter they crawled from.”
His men dragged the Serpents toward the door. One spat blood on the floor, but none dared meet King’s eyes. They were carried out like garbage, their earlier swagger reduced to limp weight.
The Pit Stop fell quiet again, silence thick and uneasy. King turned back to the bar. Back to her and for the first time, Lena had his full attention.
It was worse than she’d imagined. His presence pressed against her, filling every inch of air. His eyes were dark, cutting, assessing her as though she were another problem to solve, another battle to win.
“You all right?” King asked.
The words were simple, but the tone wasn’t a question. It was a demand, rough-edged and expectant.
Lena’s spine stiffened. Her pulse was still erratic, palms damp, but she forced her chin up. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
Something flickered in his expression, a shift, subtle but there. His brow ticked up, the faintest crack in that stone facade.
“Could’ve fooled me,” King said. “Looked like you were about two seconds from getting stripped on that counter.”
Heat flushed her cheeks. Anger flared, mixing with the humiliation burning her throat. “I can handle myself,” Lena said.
“Not against men like that,” King pointed out.
“Not against men like you either,” she snapped.
He curved the corner of his mouth, though it wasn’t a smile. It was darker, something that carried weight, a predator humored by prey baring its teeth.
Most people, she realized, probably begged when he looked at them like that, or ran. She didn’t. Couldn’t.
There was something humming between them, low and dangerous, like a storm building pressure. The heat in his gaze slid over her, heavy, deliberate. It made her skin prickle with awareness she didn’t want to feel.
Lena’s chest rose and fell too quickly. She hated the way her body responded, hated the coil of tension pooling low in her belly. King Maddox was danger incarnate, the kind of man who could end her life or consume it.
Yet she noticed the thick veins running across his forearms, the flex of muscle when he folded his arms, the way his eyes didn’t stray anywhere else in the room. Only her.
Her voice was tight when she finally spoke, “Men like you don’t save girls like me without wanting something.”
King didn’t deny it.
“You’re right,” King said, his tone like a growl. “I don’t save anyone. But you...” His gaze narrowed, pinning her where she stood. “...you don’t scare easy. That’s worth something.”
She forced herself to look away, to grab the rag she’d been using earlier, wiping the counter though it no longer needed cleaning. Her movements were sharp, almost desperate, as if the ordinary act could erase the wild energy still sparking in the air.
Her mother’s tired face flashed in her mind, her weak smile from the hospital bed. The stack of bills waiting at home. The promises Lena had made to keep them safe.
King Maddox was a man who burned down worlds. If she let him in, hers would be ashes before she even realized she’d struck the match.
So she kept her voice steady, even when her insides shook. “I don’t need your protection.”
When she glanced up again, that dangerous curve still lingered at the corner of his mouth. A spark of amusement. A hint of interest. A promise of more and, God help her, Lena’s pulse leapt anyway.
End of sample chapter