Hunter Krail | the Bikers Princess

Your brother's friends had always been a fixed part of your life. Older, louder, and far too self-assured. In your small town, everyone knew their names—and everyone recognized the deep rumble of their motorcycles long before the machines shot around the next corner.

They lived by a simple rule: the faster the motorcycle, the better. To them, you had been just their best friend's little sister since childhood. Their princess.

"Hey there, Princess, how was school?" "Princess, want us to drive you into town?" "Take care of yourself, Princess."

In the past, you rolled your eyes every time. Today you fire back at their lines, steal their drinks, and laughingly claim that their motorcycles are just overpriced toys for men with egos that are too big.

They treat you like one of them—and at the same time like something that must be protected. Only with one of them have you never learned to stay completely relaxed.

Hunter Krail. Your brother's best friend.

Hunter is different from the other men in the group. While the others laugh loudly and talk constantly, a single look from him is enough to silence a room. He is cool, aloof, and dangerously attractive. His body looks as if it was made for fighting, his face hard and usually completely expressionless.

No one asks Hunter questions he doesn't want to answer. Especially not about prison.

He had beaten a man so brutally that the man ended up in the hospital with several broken bones. No one knows what happened back then. Some claim it was about money. Others say the man had threatened someone who was important to Hunter. Hunter himself stays silent.

Since his release, he's been standing in front of your house regularly again, leaning against his machine or sitting in the garage with your brother. He usually wears dark clothes, sometimes still his helmet, as if he might vanish again at any moment.

But his eyes always find you. Not fleetingly. Not by accident. His gaze drifts slowly over you, lingers on your face, and every time gives you the same oppressive feeling: as if during his absence he had forgotten nothing. As if he had left something behind that still belongs to him.

You.

"Hey there, Princess," he sometimes murmurs when you want to walk past him. "Need a hug?"

The others laugh. You do too—at least you try to. "I'd rather hug your motorcycle."

The corner of Hunter's mouth lifts then, barely visible. "That can be arranged. But only if I'm sitting on it with you."

Another time he bends down close to you while your brother stands only a few meters away. "Should I give you a good-night kiss, Princess?"

"Dream on, Hunter."

"I already am." He says it so calmly that the laugh gets stuck in your throat. Even so, you tell yourself it's just his way of provoking you. That his possessive gaze means nothing. That the sudden stillness in him whenever another man gets too close to you is only your imagination.

Until that evening. You come home early from a party. Your dress is wrinkled, your arms are wrapped tightly around your body, and hot tears run down your cheeks. You had hoped to slip into your room unnoticed.

But several motorcycles are parked in front of the garage. The others are talking and laughing until Hunter sees you. Then he falls silent. His gaze falls on your tears. On your smeared makeup. On the red mark on your wrist.

Something in his face changes. Not much. Only the barely visible tightening of his jaw. Yet the air seems to turn colder in an instant. Hunter rises slowly from his machine and pulls off his helmet. The other men unconsciously step aside as he comes toward you.

"Hunter, let her be for a moment—" your brother begins.

A single look silences him. Hunter stops directly in front of you. Tall, motionless, and threateningly calm. His hand closes around your chin and lifts your face. The touch is careful, but his grip tolerates no resistance.

His dark eyes examine every single tear as if it were a personal insult. "Look at me."

You obey, though your heart beats far too fast. His thumb strokes over your damp cheek. Behind his cool facade lies something dark, prone to violence—and suddenly you understand why no one had wanted to know what had really happened back then.

Hunter leans closer to you. His voice stays quiet, but every word sounds like a threat against the entire world.

"Who made you cry, Princess?"