Claimed By The Alpha, Marked By The Biker-Chapter 24: when Love hurts

Mordred’s Pov:

The tires screamed against the asphalt as I gunned the bike out of the hospital parking lot, the engine’s roar drowning out the echo of Kianna’s voice in my head.

"Stop acting like my guardian." " Stop messing with my friendships." These two words made me feel like shit.

She even called security on me and made him haul me out like some thug. And what even hurt the most, is her cold and defiant eyes as she hugged that snake Lysander.

After everything—after I’d begged her not to go, after I’d risked my neck a dozen times to keep her safe—she’d chosen him. Defended him and pushed me away.

Fury boiled in my veins, hot and thick, making my grip on the handlebars white-knuckled.

The city blurred past in streaks of neon and shadow, November wind whipping through my jacket like icy knives.

Home? Screw that. The empty house would just amplify the rage, the walls closing in with memories of her—wet from the shower, laughing in my bed and her body arching under mine.

No. That’s not what I need now, I need noise and distraction. Something to numb the betrayal gnawing at my chest.

I veered off the main drag, tires kicking up gravel as I headed for Jax’s place. He was one of my old crew from campus days, before the deals and before the shadows swallowed my life whole.

Always throwing these half-assed house parties on weekends, or whenever the hell he felt like it.

Tonight? Perfect timing. I could hear the bass thumping from two blocks away,lights spilling out the windows like the house was on fire from the inside.

I parked the bike crooked on the lawn, killed the engine, and stormed up the steps.

The door swung open before I could knock, It was Jax, red-eyed and grinning like an idiot with a beer in each hand.

"Mordred! Man, you look like shit. Get in here—shots are flowing!" He squealed.

I snatched one of the beers without a word and shoved past him into the chaos. The living room was packed: bodies grinding to some shitty EDM track, red Solo cups littering every surface and the air was thick with smoke and sweat.

Laughter exploded from a group playing beer pong in the corner and a couple making out against the wall like the world was ending.

I waded through it all, beelining for the kitchen where the hard stuff waited. Jax trailed me, slapping my back. "What’s eating you, bro? Girl trouble? That Kianna chick everyone’s whispering about?"

"Shut up," I growled, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the counter and pouring a generous slug into a cup.

The burn hit my throat like fire, but it didn’t touch the storm inside. I downed another, leaning against the fridge as the room spun a little.

Then Kianna’s face flashed—tears on her cheeks as she hugged Lysander, her voice sharp when she told me to leave. She’s mad at herself for not trusting him?Bullshit. I’d warned her, Lysander was rotten and Trent’s lies at the station proved it.

And now a sniper? Convenient as hell that he "took the bullet" for her. The hero acts to win her over. I poured a third shot, the whiskey settling heavy in my gut.

Half-drunk already? Close enough. The edges of my vision softened, but the anger didn’t.

It festered, twisting into something darker. How long had I been playing protector? Since the mansion incident, pulling her out of that firestorm, patching her up and letting her in.

And for what? To get security called on me like I was the threat?

"Mordred, you good?" Some girl I vaguely recognized from Jax’s circle sidled up, her hand on my arm.

She’s Blonde, wearing a short skirt with her eyes glassy from whatever she was on. "You look like you need to dance it off." She added, trying to drag me into the chaos.

But I shrugged her off. "Not tonight." She pouted and vanished into the crowd.

I wandered to the back porch, the cool night air a slap after the stuffy house. A few smokers huddled around a fire pit, passing a joint.

I dropped into a chair, bottle in as I stared at the flames. What now Mordred? Are you going to drink yourself to sleep because of a girl? I thought to myself. But Kianna wasn’t just a girl. She’s the one I love with my whole goddamn heart.

And she’d chosen to believe him over me. The more I think of it, the more I want to grab that smallish bastard by the neck and choke him to death for playing games with me. It felt like a knife twist.

The whiskey blurred time. An hour? Two? The party ramped up inside with music pounding through the walls. I was halfway through the bottle now, the world tilting on its axis when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was probably Jax or one of the guys—but I ignored it.

Let it ring, let everything burn.Then suddenly, a shadow fell over me. I looked up, squinting through the haze. It was some random guy I don’t recognize. He’s tall and had his hood up with his face half-hidden in the firelight’s flicker.

He leaned in close, but something was off about his posture. Then he whispered, breath hot against my ear:

"How does it feel, to lose something you love to someone else? This is just the beginning."

The words hit like a gut punch. I surged up, grabbing for his collar, but the whiskey slowed me—my hand swiped air.

He slipped back into the shadows, vanishing through the side gate before I could stagger after him.

I was weak, too damn weak from the booze and the rage. I cursed, slamming my fist into the porch railing. Splinters bit my knuckles, but the pain was nothing compared to the echo in my head.

Lose something I love? Kianna. He meant Kianna. But who exactly is this guy? Anonymous? Or one of his puppets?

I stumbled back inside, the party felt like a swirling mess. Faces blurred—laughing, shouting and pressing in. I needed to go home and sleep this off.

"Hey, big guy, you okay?" A voice cut through the din, It was soft and feminine.

I turned with my vision doubling. A brunette girl with freckles, wearing a cropped top and jeans—steadied me with a hand on my arm.

"You look like you’re about to face-plant. Need help getting home?" She asked, almost like a complaint more than a question.

I mumbled something—maybe a no, maybe a yeah. She laughed, light and easy, looping her arm through mine. "Come on, I’ve got a car. Can’t let you ride that bike like this."

The drive was foggy. Streetlights streaking past, her chatting about the party and some band she liked. I leaned my head against the window, the whisperer’s words gnawing at me.

This is just the beginning. Beginning of what? Losing her for good? There’s no way.

When we reached home, She helped me up the steps to my door, key fumbling in the lock.

Inside, the house spun. The last thing I saw was her taking out her phone to do something I couldn’t catch on. Texting someone? Or maybe making a call.

I collapsed on the couch—or was it the bed? Darkness swallowed me whole and finally ended my terrible day with a tired sleep.

The next morning, the sunlight stabbed through the blinds like knives, straight into my skull.

I groaned, rolling over as the sheets tangled around my legs like they were trying to hold me captive. My mouth tasted like ash and regret, a bitter mix of stale whiskey and bad decisions.

I tried stretching, that’s when it hit me. My head began aching terribly. It was pounding a relentless rhythm behind my eyes—boom, boom, boom—too much liquor, not enough sense, and definitely not enough water to chase it down.

What the hell had happened last night? Fragments floated in, jagged and incomplete, like pieces of a shattered mirror reflecting a man I barely recognized.

I sat up slowly, the room spinning in protest, a carousel of nausea that made me grip the edge of the mattress to steady myself.

Clothes were scattered across the floor like casualties of war—my jeans in a heap by the door whilst my shirt was balled up near the foot of the bed.

And then I saw it: a woman’s high heel, black with a strappy design, lying on its side near the nightstand. Next to it, a tube of pink lipstick, cap off, as if it’d been tossed there in haste.

Panic iced my veins, freezing me in place. Who the fuck was she? Where was she now? Had I...?

Oh no, I think so. Then almost like a flash, memories of last night flickered to life, dim and hazy through the fog of hangover.

The party at Jax’s place, the smokers, the couples I saw making out, me holding a bottle of whiskey as I drown myself in alcohol then the important part—The whisperer.

The one who asked me how it felt to lose someone you love to another person. But why can’t I remember this person’s face? Maybe I didn’t see it, or even if I did I was too drunk to catch on.

Then finally the girl who brought me home. I recalled blacking out right after hitting the bed or the couch. But anything else after? I couldn’t recall.

If that was the case, then why is her stuff all over this place like that ? Then before I could question myself any further my phone buzzed on the pillow beside me, the screen cracked like a spiderweb from whenever I’d dropped it.

Dozens of notifications lit up the display—texts from Jax and the guys, tags from people I barely knew and alerts from that goddamn Anonymous forum.

My stomach dropped like a stone into a well. With trembling fingers, I unlocked it and thumbed through the chaos.

Then the top post hit me like a freight train. It says, "Mordred’s Wild Night: Cheating on Kianna Already? Heartbreak or Habit?"

Posted by Anonymous, of course—the faceless coward who’d been tormenting us for weeks. I scrolled down, heart pounding harder than my headache.

Photos loaded one by one, each one a nail in the coffin. First, me at the party, red cup in hand, eyes glassy and unfocused, a sloppy grin on my face as I leaned against the wall. The brunette girl was there, arm linked through mine with her head on my shoulder like we were old lovers.

Another shot: us outside, her helping me inside her car with her arms wrapped tight around my waist. The angle was perfect—intimate and damning.

Then the worst ones: the bedroom. My bedroom, her in my bed with sheets pulled low to expose just enough skin to suggest everything and she was smirking at the camera with a knowing look.

Then another was me, passed out beside her with my shirt off and one arm draped across the pillow, making it look like we’d spent the night tangled up in each other.

"Fuck!" I hurled the phone across the room; it smacked against the wall with a crack and clattered to the floor.

No. Hell no. I didn’t—we didn’t. I’d blacked out, sure, the whiskey hitting like a hammer after the emotional gut-wrench of the hospital.

But I knew nothing happened.My body would’ve remembered, even if my mind was fuzzy. She must’ve staged it all—propped me up, snapped the pics while I was dead to the world and then slipped out like a ghost.

But who was she? A random party girl with a grudge? Or worse—a plant, sent by Anonymous to twist the knife deeper?

The comments flooded in below the post, hundreds already, each one a fresh stab. I picked up the phone again, screen now with a new fracture, and scrolled through the vitriol.

It’s top ones says,

"Wow, Mordred’s trash. Dumps Kianna for a random after seeing her with Lysander? Pathetic. Guy can’t handle a little competition."

" Habit, def. Guy’s a player through and through. Kianna deserves better than this sleaze."

" Heartbreak? More like revenge. I heard he stormed out of the hospital—jealous AF over her hugging Lysander after the shooting. Lol, karma bites hard."

I clenched my fists, how dare they. Judging me over something I didn’t even do. All of this because of that bastard, Lysander. The more I scrolled through, the more my heart began bumping faster.

Criticism piled on, tags pinging my name like digital bullets in a firing squad. My rep on campus—already shady from the rumors of my family’s "connections" and my own run-ins with trouble was shredded beyond repair.

People who’d never met me were now dissecting my life,judging and condemning me. But the worst part? Kianna, she’d see this. After the fight at the hospital, after she’d pushed me away and chosen to believe Lysander’s innocent act,yeah—she might believe it.

The thought twisted like a blade in my chest, sharper than any hangover. We’d crossed lines, shared moments that felt real and vulnerable. And now this lie could erase it all.

I staggered to the bathroom, the floor cold under my bare feet, and splashed water on my face from the sink.

The mirror showed a wreck staring back—bloodshot eyes rimmed with dark circles, stubble rough like sandpaper, a bruise blooming on my forearm from... the ride home? Or falling into bed? No time for self-pity.

I gripped the counter, knuckles white, breathing deep to steady the rage building like a storm.

Anonymous did this. No doubt, he set up the girl at the party, timed the whisper to rattle me, then orchestrated the photos and the upload.

They even tied it to the hospital—how the hell did they know about the hug? About me storming out? Spies everywhere? Someone at the party watching? Or Lysander himself, feeding info to cover his tracks.

The sniper shot yesterday was too convenient, grazing his arm while "saving" her.Trent’s involvement at the station screamed coordination. And now this ?

Whoever this anonymous is, either a genius or some sort of a psycho who’s obsessed with ruining my life. But why?

Rage surged, white-hot and consuming. I slammed a fist into the sink counter, pain exploding up my arm, grounding me in the moment.

"You’re dead," I snarled at my reflection, voice low and lethal. "When I find you, Anonymous—whatever dark hole you’re hiding in—I’ll be the one to end it. Slowly, and piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but regrets."

I grabbed my phone from the floor, ignoring the endless buzz of new notifications, and dialed Jax. He picked up on the third ring, voice thick with sleep. "Mordred? Man, it’s early. What..."

"The party last night," I cut in, pacing the room now, boots forgotten as I wore a path in the carpet. "Who was the brunette? The one who ’helped’ me home? What’s her name? Or anything—think."

Jax yawned, the sound grating on my nerves. "Brunette? Dude, there were like five brunettes here. I recall you leaving with some chick, yeah—she said she knew you or something. Didn’t catch her name. It looked like she was from off-campus, maybe. Why? She stole your wallet or what?"

"Nothing. Forget it." I hung up, frustration boiling over. No leads there, Jax was reliable in a fight, but details weren’t his strong suit.

I needed better intel. Dad’s contacts? Hell no—he’d already gotten wind of the arrest from the lawyer, and the last thing I needed was a lecture on "family reputation" or how I was letting emotions cloud my judgment.

His eyes were everywhere, informants on payroll in every corner of the city, but calling him in would mean admitting weakness. No, I’ll try my own network first.

I texted my hacker buddy, fingers flying over the cracked screen: Can you try tracing the IP on the latest Anonymous post. The one with my pics. Deep dive—origins, any linked accounts or patterns. I owe you big."

He replied almost immediately: "On it. Give me a few hours. This guy’s slippery, he has proxies everywhere last time I checked."

Good enough. Then, the whisperer. Faceless in my memory, but the words were too personal, too pointed. Knew about Kianna, about the "loss" to Lysander.

Had to be someone close to the circle. Lysander himself? Too obvious—he was playing the wounded hero now. Trent? That buzz-cut asshole fits the profile. He’s sneaky and connected through his "loaded dad."

Or Maddox, the entitled lacrosse prick, stirring shit for fun, getting back at Kianna for rejecting him. He’d bullied her at the lockers yesterday, reveling in the rumors. Wouldn’t put it past him to escalate. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

I dressed quick—jeans that smelled faintly of smoke, a black hoodie to blend into the shadows and boots laced tight for whatever came next.

The house felt empty, echoes of Kianna’s presence mocking me: a forgotten hair tie on the dresser, the faint scent of her shampoo in the air. I shoved it down, focusing on the hunt.

In the garage, my bike gleamed under the fluorescent light, mocking my hangover with its sleek unyielding frame. I swung a leg over the leather seat and reached for the helmet.

Just then my phone dinged again, this time it was a private message from an unknown number with no profile pic.

It says:"Enjoy the spotlight, Mordred. She’s next."

Obviously anonymous. He’s now

taunting me directly huh. My grip tightened on the handlebars making my knuckles ache.

She’s next? The threat hung heavy, fueling the fire. I revived the engine, the roar echoing off the walls like a battle cry with its tires screeching as I peeled out into the street.

Game on. I’d hunt them down—trace every digital footprint, shake down every contact and expose every dirty secret.

And when I had them cornered, begging for mercy... mercy wouldn’t be in my vocabulary. Not after this shit.

But first—Kianna. I had to warn her about this setup, explain the photos were fake, that I hadn’t betrayed her.

If she’d even listen after last night, after I’d grabbed her wrist too hard and let the jealousy spill over.

The city blurred past in a rush of concrete and neon, wind cutting through my hoodie like accusations from every direction. This wasn’t just a game anymore. It was a war. And I intended to win, no matter the cost.