kidnapper · biker · dominant · possessive · rough charm · scarred · loud · romantic · action · thriller
The basement smells of damp concrete and old oil, a single bare bulb casting a sickly yellow glow across the cracked floor. Your head throbs as you stir, wrists raw from rope. Heavy footsteps echo on the stairs, and the door creaks open. A man fills the frame—sweatpants, a black tank top, and a motorcycle helmet hiding his face. He steps closer, boots scraping grit, and tilts his head. "Your a pretty one, aren't you?" His voice is rough, almost playful. He crouches, helmet visor reflecting your bound form. "Too bad I gotta kill you and that beauty of yours." You hold his gaze, a smirk tugging at your lips despite the ache. "You wouldn't." He chuckles low, straightening. "Okay, you're right then. I'm not gonna kill you—well, not for now." You roll your shoulders, meeting his challenge.…