Claimed By the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #3)

Chapter 1 - Carrie

CARRIE

The wheels of my cart squeak every few feet, a sound that normally drives me nuts.

Today, I don’t mind it. I’m humming as I push the half-loaded metal cart down the nonfiction aisle, the scent of old paper and lemon polish curling around me like comfort.

The library is quiet, except for the muffled voices at the front desk and the faint rustle of someone flipping pages in the periodicals section.

This is my happy place.

Or…it was.

I’ve worked here since college. First as a part-timer during finals season, then as a full-time assistant, and eventually as one of two senior librarians in the whole damn town.

It’s not glamorous. The air-conditioning fights a losing battle during the summers, and the budget meetings make me want to slam my head into a book return bin, but it’s mine.

My little kingdom of card catalogs, reference requests, and overdue notices.

Today, though, everything feels brighter.

Because tonight, I’ve got a surprise party planned for Jinn.

I grin just thinking about it. He’s going to love it.

His favorite whiskey, his MC buddies, and the cake I spent all night frosting myself.

He doesn’t know it yet, but I even made a playlist. Every dumb, cheesy song we’ve ever sung in the car is on there.

I even threw in a few slow ones for later, when I plan to drag him onto the makeshift dance floor and press myself against him like I used to back in high school.

It still feels weird sometimes that he’s mine.

We’d been together just under a year—long enough for me to picture a future, not long enough to realize I was the only one holding the pieces together.

A year of little routines, stolen weekends, whispered plans that felt real because I wanted them to be.

Maybe that’s why the idea of losing him tightened something deep inside me.

That someone like Jinn Parker—the president of Satan’s Reapers, tattooed and gorgeous and always looking like he just stepped out of some grimy, violent music video—would want me. Curvy, bookish, shy me. The librarian who triple-checks decimal points and alphabetizes her spice rack.

He says I’m sexy when I talk about historical preservation. He actually said that. And I believed him.

I’d never been someone men looked at twice.

Not like that. Not with heat under it, or that fierce, steady focus Jinn had when he wanted something.

He made me feel chosen in a way I didn’t know I craved—seen past the careful smiles, past the soft body I learned to hide behind.

With him, I let myself believe I could be desired, even wanted.

He’s my first real boyfriend. My first everything, really. The first man who looked at me and saw more than just the safe option. When he told me I was beautiful—before he even touched me—I cried like an idiot in the back of his truck.

God, I hope tonight goes well.

It scared me sometimes, how tightly I held things I cared about. How losing someone—or even the idea of losing them—could make my judgment tilt sideways. I wasn’t reckless by nature, but when my heart cracked, it cracked fast. And deep.

Maybe that was love.

Or maybe it was the part of me that had never learned how to let go without breaking.

I slide a new copy of Understanding the Civil War into its slot and smile to myself, already picturing the look on Jinn’s face when he walks into the clubhouse tonight.

He thinks I’m just meeting him for drinks after my shift.

He has no idea everyone will be waiting.

No clue I’ve been planning this for weeks.

My fingers trail along the spines of the books as I move to the next shelf. For a moment, I let myself imagine him showing up early, arms wrapping around me, whispering something dirty against my ear just to make me blush while I’m still on the clock.

“Miss Saxe?”

I jerk upright, startled. Mrs. Luntz, the director, stands near the end of the aisle. Her expression is unreadable, hands clasped in front of her cardigan like she’s about to scold a child.

“Can I see you in my office, please?”

The smile fades from my face.

Something in her tone tells me this isn’t about book orders.

I follow Mrs. Luntz down the narrow hallway, my sneakers silent on the faded carpet. The air in her office smells like burnt coffee and lavender hand lotion. She gestures to the chair across from her desk, then sits with a sigh, not quite meeting my eyes.

The blinds are drawn halfway, casting slatted shadows across the cluttered bookshelves and dusty fern wilting in the corner. I fold my hands in my lap, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

“Is something wrong?”

She sighs. “Carrie…you’ve been here a long time.”

My throat tightens. “I know.”

“You’ve given so much to this library. The board appreciates that.”

This is worse than being yelled at. She’s using her kind voice—the one she uses on kids whose goldfish just died.

“We’ve had complaints,” she says carefully. “Not from patrons, but from…higher up. People are watching what happens here. We’re a public institution.”

My brows pull together. “What kind of complaints?”

Mrs. Luntz doesn’t meet my eyes. She taps her fingers once on the edge of the desk, like she’s stalling.

“Nothing specific. It’s…more about association. About certain connections that raise eyebrows.”

I stare at her. “I don’t understand.”

She gives me a tight, polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Carrie, you’re an excellent librarian. This isn’t about your work.”

“Then what is it about?”

A beat of silence.

She folds her hands in front of her, like she’s delivering news about a budget cut instead of turning my life upside down. “It’s been decided that your employment here is no longer tenable.”

I blink. “Wait—are you firing me?”

Her expression softens just enough to make it worse. “The board feels it’s best—for the library and for you—that we part ways. You’ll receive two weeks of severance.”

“I’m being fired because of who I’m dating?” I ask, voice rising despite my best efforts. “Is that what this is?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

And that silence is enough.

“You didn’t even ask me if any of those rumors were true,” I say, my voice low. “You just made assumptions.”

“There were discussions,” she replies. “And when public perception starts to threaten our reputation—”

“You could’ve asked,” I repeat.

Mrs. Luntz looks pained, but she doesn’t backpedal.

“We’re not in a position to manage public fallout right now,” she says, still not meeting my eyes. “Budgets are tight. The board felt this was the most practical course of action.”

I let out a short laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. “You could’ve just asked me. Asked what was real. What wasn’t.”

Her face folds with something that might be pity. “Carrie, I’m sorry. I truly am. I wish things were different.”

I push to my feet. “So do I.”

I don’t go back to the desk. I don’t stop to say goodbye.

I head straight to the staff room, moving on autopilot. My locker is still propped open from lunch. I toss my mug inside my tote bag, grab the worn cardigan I always leave hanging on the hook, and slide the framed photo of me and Jinn from behind the shelf where I keep it tucked away.

It’s dumb, but I stare at it for a second. We’re smiling. The kind of open, careless joy that only looks real when you don’t know what’s coming.

I wrap the frame in a spare T-shirt and slide it into my bag.

When I turn to leave, I catch movement through the narrow window in the break room door.

Marla, the circulation manager, lingers by the copier, eyes flicking toward me and away again just as quickly.

Beside her, James from IT gives me the smallest nod, his mouth pressed in a tight line.

Someone else whispers something behind the reference desk.

They know.

Of course they do. Word travels faster in this place than a virus in a preschool.

I don’t acknowledge any of them. If I make eye contact, I’ll cry. If I speak, I’ll scream.

I push open the side door and step out into the early evening heat.

My car’s hot from sitting in the sun, and the air inside smells like old coffee and spilled perfume. I don’t bother with music. I just drive.

Each block I pass pulls me further from the life I’ve built, the one I thought was safe. Predictable. Good.

Fired.

Because I fell in love with the wrong man.

Except no one actually said that. Luntz didn’t name names. She just danced around it, hinting at “public perception” and “certain affiliations.” But she didn’t deny it either.

Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m not.

I pull into the driveway too fast, tires crunching against the gravel at the edge. Marcy’s car is already parked, crooked and close to the curb, as if she just flung it there without a second thought.

Of course my sister’s here.

I kill the engine and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel.

I should be getting ready for tonight. Decorating the back room at the clubhouse. Lighting candles. Sneaking cupcakes into the kitchen before Jinn arrives.

Instead, I’m unemployed.

My throat tightens, but I swallow it down.

I grab my tote, push open the door, and head inside.

The door creaks as I step inside, letting in the scent of fried food and fabric softener. The TV’s on in the living room, something loud and ridiculous, and Marcy’s sprawled on the couch in a hoodie and—

No.

Not a hoodie.

A leather jacket.

My eyes catch on it immediately. Black. Fitted. The white block letters across the back flash like a spotlight in my brain.

Property of Jinn.

I take a second longer than I should to process it. I wore that jacket to work last week, just once, because I was running late and hadn’t grabbed a coat. Didn’t think twice about it.

But now, seeing it again, I feel my stomach sink.

Maybe that was it.