Biker's Claim: chapter 3
Raven's pov
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I was going to kill him.
Not right now. Not in public. But later? Yeah, definitely.
My foot slammed on the gas as I turned off the main road, muttering curses under my breath. The SUV's AC was blasting, but it did nothing to cool the fire in my chest—or the latte soaking into my shirt.
If I weren't so furious, I might've cried. This blouse was my favorite. Silk. Classy. Now? Ruined. My skirt? Wrinkled. My hair? Don't get me started.
And that guy? That arrogant biker with the deep voice and smug smirk? Oh, he just rode off like he didn't almost send me to the ER and wreck my day.
"I should've hit him back," I muttered, pulling into Vortex Systems' underground parking. "Like with my car. Just backed into his stupid bike."
Of course, I didn't. Because I'm not a psychopath. I'm a professional. Supposedly.
I parked and checked the time.
8:21 AM.
Yep. Late.
And about to walk into the most important interview of my life looking like a latte-soaked disaster.
I grabbed my bag, did a fast damage check in the mirror, and muttered to myself, "You've got this. Just charm them with your genius."
Hopefully, they wouldn't smell the latte on my shirt.
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As soon as I stepped into the lobby, all eyes turned.
People stared like I'd walked in naked. I mean, yeah—I wasn't exactly looking polished. Latte-stained white shirt. Wrinkled black skirt. Converse sneakers. Smudged lip gloss.
Cute.
I gave them a tight smile and kept walking, silently cursing the man who caused this.
The receptionist gave me a look before I even reached her desk. Judgy. Cold. Eyebrows arched to the gods.
"Had a rough morning," I muttered.
"Name?"
"Raven Voss. I'm here for the interview."
"You're late."
"I know. Just by a few minutes."
She rolled her eyes, tapped on her screen, then said, "Second floor. Conference Room Four."
"Thanks," I mumbled, forcing a smile.
The elevator ride felt like a countdown to my own execution. When the doors slid open, I spotted a guy in a company badge and asked him where the room was.
He pointed left. I nodded, adjusted my bag, and headed down the hallway like a soldier going to war.
I knocked once on the conference room door… then stepped inside.
And froze.
Him.
The biker. The latte-wrecker. The human disaster disguised as a Greek god.
I wouldn't have recognized him if it wasn't for the helmet on the table—and those forest-green eyes.
I scoffed loudly. "Oh, great. You again."
He leaned back in the chair like he owned the place.
"At least you have a heart," I muttered sarcastically, marching inside and dropping my laptop bag at the far end of the table.
Then I walked straight up to him and—yeah—I poked his chest. Repeatedly.
"You need to apologize to whoever comes in for this interview," I said, my voice sharp. "Tell them you're the reason I was late. That way they don't think I don't take this seriously."
He tilted his head and locked eyes with me.
"Will do," he said simply.
"Good," I huffed. "You just have to fix my car and you're free. The clothes? I'll handle it. But you don't get to ruin my shot at this."
And then—I started ranting. Fully.
I didn't even pause to breathe as the words poured out.
I told him everything—how I needed this job, how my mom wouldn't stop nagging about getting a 'real' career, how she didn't respect what I already did with tech.
No one knew the truth. They all thought I was just some girl who liked playing with numbers and code. No one had a clue about the firewalls I've cracked or the systems I've slipped into. I kept that life secret. Hidden. Even from the people closest to me.
But this job at Vortex Systems? It was a way to shut them all up. To prove I was more than just someone behind a screen.
I ranted about my morning. About the latte. About how he had the nerve to just ride off like nothing happened.
I even mentioned how I'd probably kill him if this job fell through.
The whole time?
He just sat there. Watching me. Silent. Amused.
Like this was his entertainment for the day.
Finally, I ran out of steam. My chest heaved. My palms hit the table in front of him.
And then… I looked at him.
Really looked at him.
He had the kind of face sculptors dream about. A jawline made of angles and shadows. Lips full and ridiculously pink. Tattoos crept from beneath his sleeves. His black shirt clung to his torso like it was painted on, every line of muscle beneath it screaming dangerous.
I swallowed hard.
No. Not dangerous.
Ravenous.
I dragged my eyes up—slowly—until I met his.
Forest green. Intense. Piercing.
And smirking.
"Like what you see?" he asked, voice smug.
I blinked. "Never," I bit back, rolling my eyes.
He stood, slow and sure, placing his hands on the table on either side of me—caging me in.
"You liar," he murmured.
Before I could respond, the door creaked open.
A man in his forties stepped in, dressed sharply in a gray suit.
I quickly stepped away from Dante and stood straight, my heart in my throat.
"H-hi," I said, trying to sound composed. "I'm Raven Voss. I'm here for the interview."
The man glanced at me… then at the guy behind me. His brows lifted slightly.
"Mr. Dante," he said respectfully. "I wasn't told you'd be conducting this interview."
My eyes widened.
Mr. Dante?!
The biker—no, Dante—just waved him off with that same cocky ease.
The older man smiled at me kindly.
"Miss Voss," he said, "you'll be interviewed by Mr. Dante himself."
I turned slowly, locking eyes with the man who nearly wrecked me this morning—physically and emotionally.
Dante tilted his head.
That smirk?
Still there.
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