Claimed By The Alpha, Marked By The Biker-Chapter 25: The Anonymous Games

Mordred’s Pov:

The hospital loomed like a goddamn fortress as I pulled up on my bike, the engine’s growl cutting off into silence that felt too heavy.

My head still throbbed from the hangover, but the rage from the photos—those fake, madeup photos,had sharpened everything else.

I’d spent the morning piecing together scraps: my hacker buddy was still digging on the IP, Jax had no leads on the brunette girl, and that taunting message from Anonymous "She’s next" looped in my skull like a threat I couldn’t ignore.

I had to see Kianna and warn her. Explain that the whole thing was a setup, that I hadn’t touched that girl and that the blackout was my stupid way of coping with her pushing me away. If she’d just listen...

I stormed through the sliding doors, ignoring the receptionist’s protest. "Sir, visiting hours...." and beelined for Lysander’s room.

The hallway smelled like antiseptic and regret, every step fueling the fire. If he was there, fine—I’d deal with him. But Kianna was the priority.

The door was cracked open. I pushed it wider, expecting to see her in that chair by his bed, maybe holding his hand like some Florence Nightingale bullshit.

Instead, it was just Lysander, propped up on pillows, his bandaged arm slung across his chest. He looked up from his phone, and a slow, smug smile spread across his face.

"Where is she?" I growled, stepping inside and letting the door click shut behind me. The room felt too small, the beeps from his monitor grating on my nerves.

Lysander set his phone down, that smile widening like he’d been waiting for this.

"Who? Kianna? She stepped out for coffee. Said she needed a break from all the... drama."He responded, then his eyes flicked over me, taking in my disheveled hoodie and the tension in my stance.

"Rough night, Mordred? I saw the posts. You’re trending hard. Cheating already? Man, I always knew you were a jerk, but you just proved me right. Couldn’t even wait 24 hours after storming out like a jealous kid."He added in a calm but sharp tone.

The words hit like gasoline on embers. I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms.

"You don’t know shit. Those photos are fake and staged. And you? Playing the hero with that scratch on your arm? Convenient how the sniper just "grazed" you." I shot back, trying hard not to snap.

He chuckled, low and mocking, leaning back against the pillows like he owned the place. "Fake? Sure, buddy. Keep telling yourself that. But Kianna? She believes it. Saw the hurt in her eyes when she scrolled through the forum earlier. You blew it. And me? I saved her life. What have you done lately besides grab her wrist and act like a caveman?"

My vision tunneled. Then the voice of the whisperer from the party echoed in my mind, "lose something you love to someone else." And now this prick was rubbing salt in it.

"You set this up, didn’t you? You and Trent. The lies at the station, the shooting and this. You’re Anonymous, aren’t you? Pulling strings to get her all to yourself."

Lysander’s smile faltered for a split second, but he recovered with a shrug. "Paranoid much? I’m just the guy who’s actually there for her. No secrets and definitely no controlling bullshit. Face it, Mordred—you’re toxic. She deserves better than a hangover hookup artist."

That did it. Rage exploded, I couldn’t control it anymore.I lunged, fist cocked back and ready to wipe that smirk off his face. My knuckles grazed air as he flinched..

The door flew open. "Mordred!" Kianna stood there, two coffees in hand, eyes wide with shock that quickly narrowed into fury.

She dropped the cups, making the liquid splash across the linoleum. Then she rushed between us and shoved me back hard. "What the hell are you doing? Get away from him!"

I staggered a step, the fight draining as fast as it’d surged. Her face was red, tear-streaked—hit me harder than any punch. "Kianna, wait...."

"Wait? For what? More lies?" She jabbed a finger at my chest, voice cracking. "I saw the photos, everyone has. Are you cheating on me right after you flipped out over a hug? After I told you to back off?"

"It’s not what it looks like!" I grabbed her shoulders—gentle this time but desperate. "I was drunk and pissed about what happened here at the hospital. Went to Jax’s party to blow off steam and blacked out. That girl—she helped me home, but nothing happened. She staged the pics. Anonymous posted them to screw with us. You have to believe me..."

She wrenched free, stepping back like I was poison. "Believe you? Why should I? You storm in here, try to hit a guy who’s already shot because of me? And the party—why go there at all? After everything? And letting some random girl take you home? In her car? God, Mordred, it’s like you don’t even care how it looks!"

"I care! That’s why I’m here—to explain, to protect you. Anonymous messaged me too and said you’re next. This is all a setup to drive us apart!" I responded, trying to hold it all together even though my voice had begun cracking too.

Her laugh was bitter and hollow. "Protect me? By controlling me? By getting wasted and ending up in bed with someone else? No. I’m done with your excuses."

The argument spiraled, voices rising—me pleading, her accusing and Lysander watching from the bed with that damn satisfied gleam.

Words flew like shrapnel: trust, jealousy and secrets. My chest ached; I could see the walls going up in her eyes, brick by brick. "Kianna, please..."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, cutting through the tension. She pulled it out, frowning at the screen. The color drained from her face.

"What is it?" I demanded, stepping closer.

"Unknown number." Her voice was a whisper, hands shaking as she turned the screen toward us.

Photos loaded—grainy but clear: It’s Lesley, her roommate, tied to a chair in some dim room with ropes biting into her wrist. Her face was pale and hopeless with her eyes wide in terror.

The message below says, "Meet me at the old warehouse on Elm Street. Alone. If you want her alive, come now."

Lysander sat up straighter, with his voice shivering now. "Don’t go. It’s a trap."

But I saw the fear flicker in her eyes—the same pull that had dragged her to the café yesterday, now amplified by the stakes.

No way, not again. "Give me the phone," I said, holding out my hand. "I’ll go and end this. Whoever it is, I’ll handle it. For good."

She hesitated, eyes searching mine—fury still there, but something else too. Doubt? Hope? The room hung in silence with the decision teetering on a knife’s edge.