Chapter 2: Cornered by the Dragon

POV: Jane

The giant behind the bar steps back, tossing a damp towel onto the counter with a practiced flick. He doesn’t walk away. Instead, he stays right there, crossing massive, tree-trunk arms over his chest while his dark eyes lock onto mine. There is no mistaking that look. He has claimed me. He has established his rule without saying a single word.

He doesn't ask for permission. Riot simply slides into the cramped vinyl booth across from me, his frame so massive it seems to swallow the air in the room. The seat lets out a loud, pathetic squeak of protest under his weight. Up close, the sheer scale of him is overwhelming. The dim, amber light catches the intricate ink crawling up his forearms; serpents and skulls that seem to shift and breathe against his skin every time his muscles flex.

He leans forward, planting one huge, calloused hand flat on the table. The wood groans under the pressure.

“Start talkin’, sweetheart,” Riot says. His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, like tires crushing loose asphalt. The vibration travels through the sticky tabletop and hits me squarely in the chest. “Who put that mark on your jaw?”

I grip my chipped ceramic mug of black coffee, my knuckles turning stark white against the heat. I force myself to meet his eyes. They are the color of a storm cloud, flecked with sharp bits of green, unblinking and absolutely terrifying.

“I told you,” I stammer, my voice sounding thin and shaky even to my own ears. “I fell. I’m just passing through. My car broke down a few miles back on the highway.”

“Bullshit.” Riot’s jaw ticks, a muscle flexing hard in his rough cheek. “You don’t fall into a fist. And you sure as hell don’t get a bruise that ugly from a steering wheel.”

My background in forensic accounting has trained me to find patterns in chaos, to look past the surface noise for the hidden truth. Right now, I am reading the pattern in him. There is a violent anger vibrating off his massive body, yes, but his posture isn't aggressive toward me. It is protective.

The rage isn't directed at me. It is for me.

“I’m fine,” I insist, trying to project a calm I don't feel. My teeth are still chattering from the freezing rain. “I just need to use the restroom and get out of the downpour.”

“Car broke down, huh?” Riot’s tone drops, softening into something far more dangerous. He leans in closer, invading my space until I am submerged in the scent of worn leather, motor oil, and the raw smell of rain clinging to his skin. “Or did someone break you?”

The words hit me with the force of a physical punch. I flinch, my mind instantly spiraling back to that rainy Philly alley. Stephen’s cold, mocking smile. The brutal, sickening crack of his fist. The utter betrayal that has left me bleeding in the dirt.

A sudden, traitorous wave of heat pools low in my belly, sparked by the raw, dominant intensity radiating off the biker. It is insane. I am terrified, yet my core tightens with a shameful spike of arousal. The way he looks at me; as if I were something precious that has been damaged; makes my breath catch. My nipples peak against the damp cotton of my shirt, a humiliating physical betrayal. I spend my life balancing spreadsheets and finding logic in numbers, but there is zero logic in how my body is reacting to this outlaw.

“I’m not scared,” I lie, my voice regaining a fraction of its strength. I grip the edge of the table and try to slide out of the booth. “Thanks for the shelter, but I really need to go.”

Thud.

Riot’s hand slams down on the table, blocking my only exit. The sound cracks through the quiet bar like a gunshot. The few other patrons suddenly find their drinks very interesting, looking everywhere but at us. I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat.

“Sit down, sweetheart,” Riot growls. The cocky, playful biker who was joking with his buddies a minute ago is gone. In his place sits a lethal predator, coiled and ready to strike. “You ain't goin’ nowhere. Not in this storm. And definitely not with that goddamn mark on your face.”

“You can’t keep me here,” I whisper, my pulse hammering so loud in my ears it is deafening. “I have rights.”

Riot lets out a dark, breathless chuckle, leaning across the table until his sheer physical heat completely surrounds me. “In this town, in this bar, I make the rules, darlin’. And my rule right now is you sit your pretty ass down and tell me who put that bruise on your face. Because whoever the hell it is, they’re already a dead man walkin’.”

My breath stutters. His possessiveness is suffocating and terrifying, and yet… God help me… it makes me feel safer than I have in years. I have spent days running from monsters in tailored suits, but this monster is offering to tear the world down for me.

“I don’t owe you anything,” I whisper, my chest heaving. “I’m nobody. Just let me go.”

Riot’s lips curl into a slow smirk that is more of a vicious snarl than a smile. “Wrong answer, sweetheart. You’re in a Dragon Rider bar now. And we don’t let go of what’s ours.”

The booth suddenly feels infinitely smaller, hotter, and completely inescapable. His gaze burns into mine, promising a terrifying mixture of violence and absolute protection.

Then, the entire atmosphere shifts.

The air directly behind my back grows deathly cold.

I stiffen, my spine turning to ice. My survival instincts scream a second too late. I am not just trapped by Riot’s massive frame in front of me.

From the barstool directly behind my booth, a presence materializes out of the shadows. Silent. Deadly.

I feel it through the thin, damp fabric of my oversized hoodie.

A blade. Cold, razor-sharp, pressing gently but firmly against the small of my back, right above the waistline of my jeans. The chill of the steel bites through my clothes, a stark contrast to the feverish heat radiating from Riot.

Calculate the angle, my brain screams. If he pushes forward two inches, he'll hit my kidney. Three inches, my spine. One wrong move, one sudden twitch, and the steel will pierce my skin and slide right between my ribs.

My breath completely stops. Panic, cold and sharp, floods my veins.

“Keep talking, sweetheart,” a quiet, stoic voice whispers right against my ear. It is calm, smooth, and absolutely terrifying. “But choose your next words very, very carefully.”

Across the table, Riot’s eyes flick past my shoulder, catching the faint, lethal glint of steel reflected in the cracked bar mirror behind me. I watch his face transform. His expression hardens into pure, murderous fury. The veins in his neck stand out, and his knuckles pop as his hand flexes against the wood. The entire Dragon Rider MC seems to vibrate with the sudden, lethal threat; the ambient noise in the bar drops to absolute zero.

My fingers dig desperately into the vinyl seat. I am pinned. Cornered between two absolute monsters; one in front of me, and an unknown phantom with a knife directly behind me. My pulse screams in my ears, a frantic, rhythmic pounding.

Riot leans even closer, his voice dropping to a terrifying, lethal growl that promises blood. “You’re mine, Sweetie. And whoever the fuck thinks they can touch what belongs to me…” His jaw clenches so hard a tremor runs through his face. “…is about to learn exactly what happens when they cross a Dragon Rider.”

The entire bar holds its breath. The jukebox is dead. The clinking of glasses ceases. Everything fades into a suffocating, lethal silence.

Behind me, the cold blade presses just a fraction harder against my spine.