Claimed By The Alpha, Marked By The Biker-Chapter 48: joining Hands with the Devil

Mordred’s PoV:

I slumped deeper into the worn-out armchair in my dimly lit living room, the fabric frayed at the edges from years of neglect, much like everything else in this godforsaken apartment.

The bottle of cheap whiskey—some off-brand rotgut I’d picked up from the corner store on my way home, clutched in my hand like a reluctant lifeline.

The amber liquid sloshed gently as I raised it to my lips, the sharp burn sliding down my throat, searing away the edges of the day’s humiliation.

But it couldn’t erase the memory. No, that played on an endless, torturous loop in my mind: Kianna’s warnings, the eyes that watched us fight like cats and dogs, the smugness on some of their faces and Kianna’s last glare at me before walking away with Lesley.

And it was all the bastard’s fault, if he hadn’t interfered in our life, if he’d leave us the fuck alone..none of it would’ve happened.

I took another swig, wincing at the fire that spread through my chest, but welcoming the haze it brought.

The room around me blurred at the edges—the peeling wallpaper, the stack of unpaid bills on the coffee table, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen that always seemed one breakdown away from quitting.

Oh God, once again I’m back to being Mordred the lonely kid. Back to being the black sheep nobody wants to be around.

Drinking myself to sleep felt like nostalgia, the kind I could never get away from no matter what.

It all began the day I was adopted into the Sinclair household after spending 10 years of my life being a pickpocket on the streets.

At 16 I’ve already mastered how to shoot, drink and smoke like an addict. A monster that was never loved, never welcomed and never wanted to be seen.

Until that night, the day Kianna helped me home, the day I realized Good could be replayed with good. And that’s the day I tried to be better, better for the only person I love.

And now what? I’m still the beast isn’t it? Ha! " Damn you Mordred, damn you for thinking you deserved to be loved."

"Goddamit!!" I threw the glass I was holding across the room with all the strength I have left.

Then I took another drink straight from the half empty bottle. My head lolled back against the chair, eyes closing against the sting of unshed tears mixed with the fury boiling inside me. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

How could she not see it? How could she trust that bastard over me? Me, the only one that has ever loved and cherished her. All those late night rides, sharing secrets in my bed, texting late into the night about our dreams.

I was the one who’d been there for her when her parents messed up. I even risked my family’s reputation and went to the police station voluntarily after being accused of holding her hostage.

I endured all that beatings from my Dad right after the warehouse incidents and all these sacrifices meant nothing because of just one moment, a moment that was faked by someone who spent years to bully her.

I hated him. God, I hated him so much it hurt, a physical ache in my gut that the whiskey only amplified.

In the midst of this drunken spiral, a memory surfaced unbidden, piercing through the fog like a shard of glass.

That text from yesterday night, from some unknown number. It had come right after another humiliating encounter with Maddox, where I’d beaten the shit out of him at the cafe.

The person had offered to help me get Kianna, on a silver platter and even sent a picture to prove he/she can.

I’ve been curiously stubborn and thought this was one of Maddox’s Games but now? Now, in this moment of desperation, it felt like the only thread left to pull, the only chance at turning this nightmare around.

I’m not even curious anymore, I don’t want to know who was behind it, if they can help me...then so be it, I’ll sign a deal with the devil himself if it means getting Kianna back.

I fumbled for my phone on the side table, knocking over an empty glass in the process. It shattered on the hardwood floor, but I didn’t care.

The screen blurred under my thumb as I scrolled through my messages, finding that anonymous thread buried under a sea of unread notifications—mostly spam and reminders from school apps.

My fingers trembled as I typed: "I’m ready. I don’t care what it takes. But how do I trust you?" I hit send before I could second-guess myself, my heart pounding in my ears like a war drum.

The response came almost instantly, as if the sender had been staring at their screen, waiting for me to break, to reach this point of no return.

"Wait and watch." That was it—cryptic and commanding.

My buzz sharpened into a cold clarity, adrenaline cutting through the alcohol. What did that mean? Was this some kind of game? Before I could type a reply, my phone buzzed again, it was a video file which began downloading instantly.

I hesitated, my finger hovering over the play button. What if this was a virus? Or worse, something that would get me in trouble? But curiosity and that ever-present hate won out. And so I hit play.

The video opened on a grainy scene, clearly shot from a hidden phone or a discreet angle. There was Maddox, clear as day, his trademark smirk plastered on his face. The location looked like a rundown apartment complex on the edge of town—the kind of place where parties went unchecked and parents didn’t ask questions.

The address flashed briefly in the corner, geotagged or something with a timestamp: 142 Elm Street, the old Millwood Apartments, 9:30 pm. Maddox was hanging out with his crew of sycophants, those meathead friends from the team, all muscle and no brains.

They were crowded around a girl I vaguely recognized from school, a nerdy type named Emily or something, the one who always sat alone in the library.

She looked rough—sick, maybe hungover, her face pale and sweaty, her laughter forced and miserable as they bullied her.

"Come on, chug it!" one of them yelled, shoving a beer into her hands while Maddox recorded the whole thing on his phone, laughing that hyena laugh of his.

She drank, spilling half down her shirt, and they howled, mocking her clumsiness as her tears mixed with the alcohol.

I paused the video, my stomach churning. This was Maddox unfiltered, the mask off. The good guy act he pulled at school? Bullshit.

He was a bully, a manipulator, just like I’d always known. The message that followed the video sealed it:

"Create a page. Upload this anonymously and beat Maddox at his own game."

Beat him at his own game? I leaned back, processing. Bring back the anonymous account? I mean, this anonymous thing brought Kianna and I together, but it also brought pain and worse.

Now, this stranger wants me to resurrect that vibe, but turn it against Maddox? Expose him for the hypocrite he was? Part of me wanted to delete the whole thread, to text back "No way" and block the number.

This was dangerous—getting involved in cyber shit could backfire hard. What if it traced back to me? What if Maddox finds out and tells Kianna? That would make shit worse instead.

But then the hate surged again, that deep, seething hate for Maddox that had been festering for months. It drowned out the doubt and rage.

I pictured Kianna’s face when she saw this—her realization that I’d been right, that Maddox was pretending.Maybe she’d come running back or finally listen to my side of the story and apologize for not listening.

And Maddox? Humiliated, exposed and that perfect image shattered. The thought was satisfying.

"Fine," I texted back, my fingers flying. "But who are you? Give me a name or something. Why are you helping?"

The reply was swift: "No names. I’ll be watching and I’ll help you take him down because I hate him as much as you do."

That was it. No more back-and-forth, no explanations. Just a promise hanging in the digital ether. I set the phone down, my mind racing.

Who could this be? An ex-girlfriend of Maddox’s? A former friend he’d screwed over? Someone from his past? The mystery gnawed at me, but I pushed it aside. Focus, Mordred. This was my shot.

I spent the rest of the night hunched over my laptop in my bedroom, the whiskey forgotten on the living room table, replaced by a pot of black coffee to keep me sharp.

The room was a disaster—clothes piled on the floor, posters of old bands peeling from the walls, my desk cluttered with notebooks and energy drink cans.

But tonight, it was command central. Setting up the anonymous profile was easier than I expected; I’d dabbled in this stuff before, in darker times when I’d considered revenge fantasies but never followed through.

First, I downloaded a VPN app to mask my IP—some free one that promised no logs, though I knew better than to fully trust it. Then, a burner email address through a shady service, no personal info required.

The platform? The school’s unofficial forum app, the one everyone used for gossip and memes and the one Maddox had used to spread info about me when playing the anonymous games.

I created the handle and named it ’Shadow expose." No ties to me and generic enough to blend in. Profile pic? A black silhouette, nothing identifiable. Bio: "Truth in the shadows." Cliché, but effective.

Now, the videos. There were three in total that the stranger had sent—different angles, more footage of the bullying, Emily looking increasingly miserable as they egged her on and Maddox’s laughter was the soundtrack to her humiliation.

I edited them lightly on my phone’s app, trimming dead space, adding captions like "The real Maddox" and "Hero or bully?"—then uploaded them to the profile.

The main post: a thread starting with the first video, followed by screenshots of the address and timestamps.

Caption: "See who cried weeks ago telling the whole world he has changed. Thought Maddox was the good guy? Think again. Here’s him and his crew bullying a sick nerd while they party and record her misery.

I hit post around 3 AM, the adrenaline crashing hard, leaving me exhausted but buzzing with a dark satisfaction.

The forum’s algorithm would do the rest—push it to trending if it got enough views and shares.

I imagined the notifications lighting up phones across town, kids waking up to the scandal. Crawling into bed as the first hints of dawn crept through the curtains—gray light filtering past the blinds. I dreamed fitfully of the fallout.

In my dreams, Kianna was there, tears in her eyes, saying, "You were right, Mordred. I’m sorry." Maddox was a broken shadow, slinking away in defeat. It was perfect, like poetic justice.

The next morning came too soon, my head throbbing from the hangover and lack of sleep.

I dragged myself out of bed, splashed water on my face in the bathroom ignoring the mirror that showed dark circles and stubble, then threw on whatever clothes weren’t too wrinkled: jeans and a black hoodie to blend in.

Breakfast was a stale granola bar from my backpack, washed down with more coffee.

The ride to school felt longer than usual, the winter chill biting through my layers, but anticipation kept me moving. Has it worked? Has anyone seen it?

The school buzz hit me like a tidal wave the second I stepped through the gates. The courtyard was alive with clusters of students, phones out, heads bent together in hushed excitement.

Whispers floated on the air: "Did you see that post about Maddox?" one girl said to her friend as I passed, her voice laced with disbelief.

"Yeah, total joke. He’s just as bad as they say—bullying that poor Emily while she’s half-dead from whatever? And recording it? What a prick."

A group of guys from the soccer team laughed nearby: "Maddox pretended to be the good guy? Ha, knew he was full of shit. That video’s gold."

I kept my head down, weaving through the crowds, but inside, a fire ignited. For the first time in what felt like forever, a smile tugged at my lips.

It spread, genuine and sharp, cutting through the fatigue.

I lingered by my locker, pretending to organize books, but eavesdropping on every conversation.

"So it was all an act?" a freshman asked her senior friend. "Maddox acts noble in class, but look at this—hanging with his sick friends, making that girl drink till she cries. Anonymous nailed it."

Another voice: "The address is real, Millwood Apartments. Someone must’ve been there, spying or something."

The bell rang for the first period, but the chatter didn’t stop. In hallways, in class whispers, even teachers seemed aware, shooting glances at Maddox’s empty seat—he was late, or maybe skipping? I sat in English, staring at my notebook but not seeing the words, my mind was replaying the videos and the post’s virality.

By lunch, the forum app was crashing from traffic, notifications pinging nonstop on everyone’s phones. Kianna—I spotted her across the cafeteria, her usual glow dimmed, scrolling through her feed with a furrowed brow. Has she seen it? Was she piecing it together?

And for the first time, hope bloomed amid the hate. Soon, she’d realize her mistake, seeing that I’d tried to warn her out of love, not jealousy. That was all I hoped for—her eyes opening, her coming back to me, Maddox crumbling in the dirt where he belonged.

But as the day wore on, a nagging doubt crept in: Who was the stranger? What did they want in return? I checked my phone discreetly—no new texts. Just silence. Watching, they’d said. Fine. Let them watch. This was just the beginning.

The afternoon dragged, each class a blur of lectures I barely heard. In history, Mr. Jenkins droned on about revolutions, how the oppressed rose against tyrants. Fitting, I thought, smirking inwardly.

Maddox was the tyrant, and this anonymous strike was my guillotine. By gym period, the rumors had evolved:

"Emily’s parents are furious—threatening to go to the principal."

"Maddox’s coach saw it; he’s benched for the next game." True or not, it didn’t matter; the damage was done.

Walking home that evening, the sun dipping low, casting long shadows on the sidewalk, I felt alive.

The whiskey haze from last night was a distant memory, replaced by this electric thrill.

But questions lingered: Would Maddox retaliate? Trace it back? And the stranger, is he/ she really an ally or puppet master?

I pulled out my phone, staring at the blank thread. "What’s next?" I typed, but deleted it. No, play it cool. Wait and watch, like they said.

That night, as I lay in bed, the post’s views climbing into the thousands, comments flooding in—some defending Maddox, most piling on—I smiled into the darkness and muttered under my breath.

"Bingo you scrumbag. You wanted to play dirty with set ups? This is just the beginning."