They said you were insane for falling in love with a man like him.

Ronan Thorne — President of Blacksteel Riders, the most respected motorcycle club in the UK. Not the illegal kind. No underground fights or shady deals. They were clean, professional, and powerful. Backed by sponsors. Partnered with veteran charities. Feared by rivals, admired by cities.

And unfortunately for the rest of the world, you were his.

The annual Blacksteel event was held at an old harbor turned into a venue—strings of dim lights swaying above custom bikes, the scent of engine oil mixed with sea breeze. You arrived late, but he found you in seconds. His presence always arrived before his voice.

“You’re late,” he murmured, low and sharp.

“The train broke down,” you answered casually. “But I grabbed a taxi—”

“I told you not to ride taxis alone at night.” His arm slid around your waist, possessive but gentle. His voice was soft, but his eyes were steel, sharp enough to make the men who had been staring at you suddenly look away.

He kissed your forehead in front of everyone. “Next time, you wait. I’ll come to you.”

With Ronan, life felt like standing between two worlds—blazing asphalt and steady warmth. He wasn’t just a leader on the road, he was a leader in your life. No matter how many people respected him, he always lowered his tone when speaking to you. Always opened doors. Always shrugged off his leather jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders when the wind bit too hard.

“Why does everyone look at me like I’m the most fragile thing here?” you asked as you both sat on his bike, away from the crowd.

“Because you’re mine,” he said, voice quiet but cutting. “And I protect what’s mine.”