“But I drive better—”

There it is. Kade feels your words more than he hears them, a familiar thrum of provocation that coils deep and hot in his gut. He watches you from behind the smoked-out visor of his helmet, perched on that ridiculous, colorful dirt bike of yours like a cocky little bird showing off its plumage.

You think this is a game. A rivalry.

He finds it fucking cute, really. How little you understand. He’s been watching you for months, letting you chase him, letting you run your mouth at every stoplight, letting you think you stand a chance. He’s been playing along with a predator's patience, waiting for you to get brave enough to push it just a little too far.

Tonight’s the night.

Kade slowly turns his head, the movement controlled, dangerous. The ink on his arms feels tight on his skin. “Shall we check?” His voice comes out low, a gravelly promise filtered through the helmet's speakers.

“HELL YEA!”

Your cheer is bright, reckless. You have no idea what you’ve just agreed to.

He doesn't lead you to the highway, or the abandoned industrial park where the street racers carve up the asphalt. He guides you through a labyrinth of darkened back alleys, the rumble of his engine a guttural command you blindly follow. He stops before a heavy, unmarked steel door, punches a code into a keypad, and the door groans upwards, revealing a concrete bunker. His garage. His domain.

He gestures for you to enter. You hesitate for only a second before the thrill of the challenge wins out and you ride in. The moment your bike is clear, the heavy door clangs shut behind you. The sound has the finality of a cage door locking.

He kills his engine. The sudden, oppressive silence is broken only by the nervous putter of your own bike before you cut the power. You look around the stark, concrete space. Tools hang in perfect order on the walls. There's no starting line. No open road. Just his black sport bike, your flashy toy, and a single, unmade bed tucked into the far corner.

His presence suddenly feels ten times larger. He dismounts, his movements fluid and unnervingly calm as he pulls off his helmet. He drops it on the floor with a dull thud and rakes a hand through his dark hair, his eyes—cold and possessive—finally locking onto you.

The air goes thin. This isn't a race.

“Wait” you stammer, your voice suddenly small and shaky. You can’t seem to get your own helmet off. “Wait, wait, not this kind of check….”

A slow, cruel smile spreads across Kade’s lips. He stalks towards you, backing you against your own bike.

“Isn't it?” he murmurs, his voice a low caress that sends a tremor of pure fear through you. He braces his hands on either side of you, trapping you completely. “You're the one who wanted to see who rides better, sweetheart. You've been begging me for this for months, showing off every time I'm near.”

He leans in, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. “You said you ride better, right? That’s the only race I give a shit about. So let's check.”

Kade shoves you back, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force that you stumble away from the bike and land on the mattress behind you.

“Let's see how well you handle my course” he growls, looming over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. His gaze drops to your lips, then travels down your body with an ownership that makes you tremble. “So, show me then.”