The Biker Alpha Who Became My Second Chance Mate Chapter 162

Athena

Tristan jumped over it without losing speed, the bike's front wheel lifting and clearing the obstacle before slamming back down.

"Jesus," Orion breathed.

Behind him, Jensen wasn't as lucky or skilled. He tried to swerve around the pipe, got too aggressive, and clipped it with his back tire.

The bike started to wobble, Jensen overcorrected, and suddenly he was sliding sideways. Marc couldn't avoid him, they were too close, moving too fast, and his front wheel hit Jensen's bike.

Both riders went down in a spectacular crash of metal and sparks and screaming tires.

The crowd gasped as the two bikes tumbled across the track, but both riders were already rolling away, alive if not uninjured.

Two down.

Four left chasing Tristan.

Cole was in front of the pack now, riding recklessly, and the other three were right behind him. They'd lost their careful coordination and gone pure aggressive, no more strategy, just raw speed and determination.

The final turn was coming up, the same turn with the concrete wall, and they were right on Tristan's tail. They'd learned from his earlier escape, spread out wider to cut off more escape routes.

Tristan went into the turn fast, leaning low, and for a second it looked like he'd take it clean and win.

Then Cole did something insane.

He sped up INTO the turn, his bike screaming, and deliberately clipped Tristan's back tire.

The impact wasn't huge but at that speed, at that angle, it was enough.

Tristan's bike wobbled. The back end started to slide out.

Every person in that crowd knew what was about to happen. You could feel everyone hold their breath at the same time, the moment of frozen horror.

The bike was going down.

"NO!" The scream tore out of my throat before I could stop it.

But Tristan...

His Alpha strength did something that shouldn't have been possible.

Instead of fighting the slide, he used it, letting the bike drop even lower while his leg came down to brace against the pavement.

Sparks flew from his boot as it scraped concrete, his leg taking weight that would have shattered human bones, and somehow—SOMEHOW—he kept the bike upright through pure strength and balance.

The bike shuddered, threatened to go down again, and Tristan just muscled it back up. His thigh had to be screaming, his leg possibly broken from the impact, but he didn't let go. Didn't give up.

"That's impossible," someone in the crowd said. "That's fucking impossible."

"That's Tristan," I replied quietly.

He came out of the turn still in first place.

The finish line was fifty yards ahead and I could see it now, the white line painted across the cracked pavement, the crowd already pushing toward it.

Forty yards.

Thirty.

Vic was right behind him, Cole beside Vic, both of them pushing their bikes past safe limits, engines screaming in protest. The other two riders had fallen back, unable to keep up the pace.

Twenty yards.

Ten.

Tristan crossed first.

The crowd erupted and I was screaming, my voice raw, my hands shaking. Sarah was crying beside me, Orion was yelling something that might have been words, and Derek was just standing there shaking his head, a huge grin on his face.

Tristan had won.

He'd won against six riders who'd worked together to take him down, had survived attempts that should have killed him, and he'd done it while riding more carefully than he ever had in his life, holding back because somewhere in his mind he was thinking about the babies, about me, about the future we were building.

"He did it," I said, and my voice broke. "He actually did it."

"Never doubted him for a second," Orion said, but his voice was shaky too, giving away his relief.

I watched Tristan slow down past the finish line, watched him circle back toward the starting area where Derek's truck was parked.

The crowd was already rushing toward him, people wanting to see the legend, wanting to touch him, wanting to be part of the story they'd just witnessed.

Money was changing hands everywhere as bets were settled. I heard someone saying they'd just won three thousand dollars, someone else cursing because they'd bet against Tristan.

"I can't believe anyone bet against him," Sarah said, echoing my thoughts.

"People always bet against him," Derek replied. "Makes the odds better for those of us who know better."

Tristan stopped the bike in a clear area and sat there for a moment, his chest heaving inside the leather jacket, probably catching his breath, probably realizing what he'd just done. What he'd just survived.

Then he reached up and pulled off his helmet.

His dark hair was stuck to his head with sweat and there was a cut above his eyebrow, probably from debris kicked up during the race. But he was grinning, that wild, fierce grin that made my heart stutter.

He started to get off, swinging his leg over the bike.

That's when I saw Vic.

Still on his bike. Still moving. Coming up fast behind Tristan who was getting off and didn't see him.

Everything slowed down.

I could see it all with horrible clarity—Vic's face twisted with rage through his helmet visor, his bike speeding up instead of slowing, Tristan with one leg still over Derek's bike, off-balance and vulnerable.

"TRISTAN!" I screamed but my voice was lost in the crowd noise, in the celebration that hadn't noticed the danger.

Orion saw it too. "NO!"

He was already moving, already trying to run toward Tristan, but the crowd was too thick, too many bodies between them.

Derek saw it and started shouting, waving his arms, but Vic wasn't stopping.

Tristan heard something, his Alpha senses picking up on the engine noise or maybe just instinct, and turned.

Too late.

Vic's bike slammed into him at full force.

The impact lifted Tristan off his feet and threw him backward. His body hit the ground hard, his helmet, which he'd just taken off, flying from his hand. His head cracked against concrete with a sound I'd hear in my nightmares for the rest of my life.

He rolled three times before stopping in a heap near the wall.

Vic's bike went down too, sliding sideways in a shower of sparks before crashing into Derek's parked truck.

Everything stopped.

The crowd went silent. Even the engines that were still running seemed quiet.

Tristan wasn't moving.

"TRISTAN!" I was running before I knew I'd moved, shoving people aside with strength I didn't know I had, using elbows and hands and not caring who I hit.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat and my vision was narrowing, focused only on Tristan's still form.

Orion was faster, he cut through the crowd like it wasn't there. Derek was right behind him.

I pushed through the last line of people and dropped to my knees beside Tristan, and oh god, there was so much blood.

It was pooling under his head, spreading across the concrete. His left leg was bent at an angle that made my stomach turn. His leather jacket was shredded on one side, showing road rash underneath.

"Tristan," my hands hovered over him, afraid to touch him, afraid I'd make it worse. "Tristan please."

His chest rose. Fell. And rose again.

He was breathing.

Thank god, he was breathing.

"Don't move him," Derek said, his phone already out calling for an ambulance, his voice trying to stay calm but his hands were shaking. "His back might be injured. Skull fracture possible. Jesus Christ, where's all this blood coming from?"

Orion was checking Tristan's pulse, his face pale, and I could see his other hand trembling as he held it against Tristan's neck. "It's strong. Steady. His Alpha healing should already be working but this is bad, this is really bad."

"How bad?" I asked, and I didn't recognize my own voice.

"Head trauma, possible internal bleeding, definitely broken bones," he said. "He'll heal but..."

"But what?"

"But he needs to survive the next few hours first."

Across the track, Vic was getting up from his crashed bike. His friends were helping him, and I could see him testing his arms and legs, checking for injuries.

He had some road rash, maybe a twisted ankle from the way he was favoring his left leg, but he was walking. Conscious.

And he was looking at Tristan with satisfaction, not concern.

Something hot and violent exploded in my chest, something primal and protective that I'd never felt before. It was more than anger, more than rage. It was the fierce, terrifying instinct of a mother protecting her young, even though those young were barely formed, barely real yet.

"You tried to kill him," my voice came out wrong, too calm, too quiet, and I stood on shaking legs.