Claimed By The Alpha, Marked By The Biker-Chapter 55: The Bond

Mordred’s PoV:

I slumped on the edge of my bed, the thin mattress creaking under my weight, staring at the cracked screen of my phone like it might suddenly come alive and explain everything.

It was well past midnight, and the apartment was eerily quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that presses in on you, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional car horn from the street below.

My room was a mess: clothes piled on the floor, empty energy drink cans scattered across the desk with posters of old rock bands curling at the edges from the damp.

But right now, none of that mattered. The events of the past few days had me wired, my mind racing in circles that led nowhere good.

The Vipers’ garage still haunted me—Rico’s story about Diego, that poor bastard who’d taken help from a stranger and ended up manipulated, arrested and now screaming in a psych ward about voices giving him orders.

It hit too close. Ever since that auto-tuned call at the cinema, I’d been jumping at shadows, checking over my shoulders eventually and wondering if every glance from a stranger was him watching.

The anonymous helper who’d given me the videos to expose Maddox—my supposed ally in this twisted game. But allies don’t stalk you and definitely don’t know your every move.

I hadn’t texted back, hadn’t uploaded anything new. Part of me wanted to delete the whole thread, block the number and pretend none of it had happened.

Let Maddox rot in his own mess, hope Kianna came to her senses on her own. But the hate—the deep, festering hate for him wouldn’t let go. And neither would the fear that if I stopped now, he’d win her back somehow.

The phone rang, shattering the silence. It was from an unknown number. My heart slammed against my ribs. I almost didn’t answer, almost...

But I did.

"Hello?" My voice came out rough, edged with the exhaustion I felt bone-deep.

The voice on the other end was distorted as always—auto-tuned into something robotic, inhuman, with that gravelly undertone that made my skin crawl.

"Mordred... You’ve been quiet since our last chat. No new posts? No follow-up strikes? I thought you were enjoying the win of seeing your enemy crumbling. It was beautiful, wasn’t it?"

I gripped the phone tighter. "What do you want now? More videos? More dirt to upload?"

A soft, mechanical chuckle filtered through. "Always so direct. I appreciate that about you. But no, not tonight. Tonight, I have some information. Something you’d never uncover on your own, no matter how deep you dig. Something that changes everything."

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the worn carpet. "Spit it out."

"Kianna is a wolf," he said flatly. "A full-blooded shifter, hidden in the human world. And Maddox? He’s her fated mate. The bond between them—it’s real, ancient magic. It fully activates on her nineteenth birthday. Which, if you bother to check your calendar, is in exactly ten days."

The words hung in the air, absurd, like a punchline to a bad joke. I barked out a laugh—sharp, involuntary, laced with disbelief.

"You’re shitting me. Wolves? Shifters? Fated mates? What is this, some teen fantasy novel? Next you’ll tell me fairies are real and Santa’s got a pack alliance."

"Deny it if it makes you feel better," the voice replied, calm as ever, not a hint of offense.

"But it’s the truth. I’ve seen the signs, tracked them for longer than you’ve been in the picture. Maddox’s eyes flash gold when his temper flares; that’s the wolf peeking through. Kianna avoids full moons like they burn her, even if she doesn’t understand why. She heals too fast from cuts, craves raw meat in her dreams. The pull between them isn’t just chemistry—it’s destiny. On the 22nd, at moonrise, the bond snaps into place permanently. She’ll feel him in her veins, her thoughts, her soul. She’ll crave him, need him and once it’s sealed, no amount of hate, doubt, or choice will sever it. She’ll be his forever."

My laughter died in my throat. I stood up, pacing the narrow strip of floor between my bed and the wall, the phone pressed so hard to my ear it hurt.

"You’re drunk Or high. Or just fucking with me. I’ve known Kianna for months, dated her hangout with her and even had intimacy with her. She’s a normal human being. If this was real, I’d know." I muttered firmly.

"Would you?" The voice turned mocking, just a touch. "You see what you want to see, Mordred. The loyal friend, the girl who might choose you. But reality doesn’t bend to your wishes. The pack abandoned her family years ago—scapegoats for some alpha’s power play. They hid her among humans to protect her. Maddox’s family? Old blood, connected. He’s been waiting for this birthday as much as she’s dreading it, even if she doesn’t know the full story yet."

I stopped pacing, leaning against the wall, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor. My mind raced through memories: Kianna wincing at loud noises sometimes, like they hurt her ears more than anyone else’s.

The way she’d stare at the moon on clear nights, lost in thought. Maddox’s unnatural strength on the field, the way he’d heal from hits that should’ve benched him for weeks.

Tales—I’d heard them, sure. Old stories from my grandma about werewolves in the hills, full-moon hunts, bonds that lasted lifetimes. But reality? No. That was for movies, books and crazy conspiracy forums.

"And if this fairy tale is true," I said slowly, forcing skepticism into my voice, "why tell me? What’s in it for you?"

"My reasons are my own," he replied. "But let’s say I have a vested interest in chaos. Maddox ascending to some alpha throne with a bound mate at his side? Boring. I prefer... disruption. So I’m giving you a heads-up. The deadline is in ten days, act up before it is too late." 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

"And if I decide not to do anything?" I asked him.

"If you do nothing, she becomes his forever. You’ll watch her drift back to him, smile at him like it’s her choice and build a life where you’re just a forgotten warning." He responded.

The image hit me like a punch in the gut, Kianna laughing with Maddox again, his arm around her, the light in her eyes that used to be for me fading into something forced and magical.

I cannot let this happen, no matter what.

"How do I stop it?"

"Ah, now you’re asking the right questions." The voice warmed, approving.

"Pull him down and expose more of his family’s secrets, Dad’s affairs and whatever it takes to isolate him. Keep him distracted, broken and away from her for the upcoming days."

A pause, heavy with implication. Then: "Or kill him, just go make everything quick. No bonds, no Maddox .. nothing. Problem solved."

Kill him? The word echoed, cold and final. I’d hated Maddox for years—dreamed of seeing him humiliated and ruined, but murder? That was a line I wasn’t ready to cross..not yet.

"You’re insane," I whispered.

"Practical," he countered. "But the choice is yours. Just remember—tick-tock..The clock is ticking."

Then the call ended with a click, leaving me in silence again. Damn that psycho...

Does he think killing is an easy thing? I sat on the floor for what felt like hours with my back against the wall, knees drawn up, turning the phone over in my hands.

Wolves, shifters and bonds ?It couldn’t be real. This feels like a bunch of lies or made up stories to manipulate me.

But still doubt crept in, insidious. What if it was? What if I ignored this and lost her forever to some supernatural chain I couldn’t see or fight?

No. I couldn’t let that happen.

I needed help. Someone who might believe this madness, or at least entertain it long enough to act. Someone who cared about Kianna as much as I did—maybe more, in ways that twisted my gut.

Lysander.

The thought soured in my mouth. I didn’t like him—never had. That calm, artistic vibe, always hovering around her like a shadow, offering comfort I couldn’t.

The way she looks at him and trusts him, even when he has wronged her, severely pisses me off. But I know one thing for sure, he’s the only one who’s cunning enough to help me.

The next day at school was a blur of monotony and tension. Lockers slamming, teachers droning, kids whispering about the videos that still circulated like poison.

Maddox strutted the halls with his bruises fading, flashing that smug grin like nothing touched him.

Kianna was absent—sick day, rumor said. Or avoiding everyone. I skipped lunch, my stomach felt too knotted to eat, and headed straight to the art wing after the bell for last period.

The art center smelled like paint and clay, a world apart from the fluorescent-lit hallways.

Most studios were empty, students gone for the day, but I knew where to find him. Studio 3B—the big one with the high windows and easels scattered like sentinels.

He was there, alone, under a harsh spotlight that cast long shadows across the room. Hunched over a massive canvas, brush in hand, sweeping broad strokes of indigo and silver—chaotic swirls that looked like a storm ripping open the night sky.

It was violent, beautiful and intense. Just like him, I realized with a grudging respect.

I knocked on the open doorframe. He looked up, paintbrush pausing, surprise flickering across his face before settling into wary caution.

A streak of blue smeared his cheek, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with dried paint.

"Mordred," he said evenly, setting the brush down on a palette. "This is unexpected. What brings you to my corner of the world?"

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me with a soft click that echoed too loudly in the quiet space.

The room felt intimate, canvases leaning against walls, sketches pinned up with faint turpentine scent hanging heavy.

"We need to talk about Kianna." I uttered.

His expression shifted—guarded now with some kind of protectiveness. He wiped his hands on a rag, leaning back against the worktable.

"I’m listening. But if this is about trying to win her over while Maddox is down, save it. She doesn’t need more drama."

"It’s not that," I said quickly, moving closer but keeping the table between us. "It’s something bigger...and you’re the only one who might believe me—or at least not laugh me out of the room."

He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Try me."

I took a deep breath and spilled it all. I didn’t mention the anonymous caller and the fact I was the one behind the anonymous page that exposed Maddox but I told him about getting a call from a stranger who told me Kianna and Maddox are wolves and shifters, then about the bond too.

As I talked, I paced the studio floor, words tumbling out faster with my hands gesturing wildly.

I expected interruption like questions or even mockery, but Lysander just listened attentively with concentration as his eyes eventually narrowed at key points.

When I finished, silence stretched. He stared at the floor, then back at me.

"Wolves," he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. "Fated bonds activating on her nineteenth with moonrise on the 22nd sealing it."

"Yeah," I said, bracing for the dismissal. "I know it sounds batshit insane. Like the caller’s hallucinating or screwing with me. But he knew things—details no one should. And if there’s even a chance..."

Lysander held up a hand, stopping me. "It doesn’t sound insane. Not entirely."

I blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

He pushed off the table, walking to a bookshelf in the corner crammed with art books, sketchpads, and a few dusty tomes that looked older than the school.

He pulled one out—a thick, leather-bound volume with faded gold lettering: "Mythos and Metaphor: Ancient Lore in Modern Art."

He flipped through it, landing on a page with illustrations of snarling wolves under full moons, runes etched around the borders.

"I’ve read things like this," he said quietly. "Old folklore texts, occult manuscripts and stuff a professor lent me for a project on symbolic archetypes. Lycan households, pack dynamics, blood bonds that transcend human will. I always thought it was allegory—metaphors for fate, desire and control. But the details match what you’re saying: the awakening at nineteen, the unbreakable pull and the rituals to seal or sever."

He closed the book, meeting my eyes. "And Kianna... She’s always been different. Heals from scrapes overnight. Avoids crowds on full-moon nights like they overwhelm her senses. Nightmares she won’t talk about, where she runs through forests she’s never seen."

My pulse quickened. "You believe me?"

"I believe something’s off," he replied. "And if there’s even a sliver of truth—if Maddox could trap her in some eternal claim without her consent, then I’ll burn the world down to stop it."

Relief washed over me, mingled with that familiar jealousy. "Why? What’s your stake? Why do you care so much?"

Lysander’s gaze hardened, something fierce flashing behind the calm. "Because she deserves freedom and a choice.Not to be a pawn in some alpha’s game, bullied into submission. And because..." He hesitated, glancing at his canvas—the storm of colors mirroring the turmoil in his voice.

"I care about her very deeply. More than friendship, if I’m honest. But that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is protecting her."

The admission stung, confirming what I’d suspected. But I swallowed it. We needed unity, not rivalry. "So what’s the plan?"

He set the book down, thinking. "First, verify. I’ve got access to more archives—rare stuff in the professor’s collection. We’ll dig for confirmation: bond mechanics, weaknesses, rituals to disrupt it. Loopholes—maybe rejection rites, suppressants and ways to block the moon’s influence."

"And Maddox?" I pressed.

Lysander’s jaw tightened. "We isolate him just like the stranger suggested. I will come up with a way to keep him distracted no matter what."

I nodded, mind already spinning strategies. "He’ll fight dirty. He always does."

"Then we fight dirtier." Lysander’s voice was cold steel now, the artist’s calm giving way to something sharper. "Together.. for her."

I looked at him—really looked. The paint-streaked hands, the intense eyes and the storm on his canvas.

I’d pegged him as soft, but there was steel underneath. A protector, maybe even a rival worth respecting.

"Together," I echoed, extending a hand, and he shook it firmly.

But as I left the studio, the hallway lights flickering overhead, the caller’s voice whispered in my memory: " kill him.. problem solved."

I wasn’t there yet. But ten days was a blink.

And for Kianna? I might cross any line.

The walk home was cold, wind whipping through my jacket, but my mind burned.

Plans formed: tail Maddox, dig for more dirt, coordinate with Lysander. If wolves were real and if this bond was coming, then I have to stop it no matter the cost.