Tyler’s sleek BMW had given up the ghost somewhere deep in the backroads of rural Georgia, steam pouring from under the hood like a white flag of surrender. He was a city boy through and through—sharp jaw, expensive haircut, tailored button-down now sticking to his sweat-damp skin. Phone dead. No signal. The sun was sinking low, painting the pines blood-orange. He kicked the tire in frustration and started walking.
That’s when the old pickup rumbled up.
The driver was everything the road wasn’t: massive, bearded, sun-bronzed muscle wrapped in worn denim and black leather. Thick dark hair slicked back, a heavy beard framing a cruel, smirking mouth that clenched a fat cigar. Tattoos crawled over his shoulders and chest. Black leather gloves gripped the wheel as he leaned out the window, eyes raking over Tyler like livestock at auction.
“Car trouble, boy?” The voice was gravel and smoke.
Before Tyler could answer, the man was out of the truck—towering, boots crunching gravel. One gloved hand clamped onto Tyler’s shoulder, the other pressing a chloroform-soaked rag over his face. Tyler thrashed, but the redneck’s grip was iron. The world blurred, then went black.
Tyler woke to the growl of the engine and the smell of cigar smoke. His head throbbed. Rope bit into his wrists and ankles. He was stripped to the waist, bound tight in the truck bed, a thick gag stuffed in his mouth. Through the dusty rear window he could see the redneck—Hank, the name patch on his cut read—grinning around his cigar as he drove deeper into the woods. Hank’s free hand occasionally reached back to pat Tyler’s bound thigh like a prized catch.
The truck finally stopped at a secluded clearing. Hank hauled Tyler out like he weighed nothing and slung him over one broad shoulder. A short hike later, Hank dropped him against a tree and went to work with practiced efficiency. Thick rope lashed Tyler’s arms behind him, cinched around his chest, and anchored him to the trunk. Another strip of duct tape sealed the gag in place. Hank stepped back, lit a fresh cigar, and admired his work while the campfire crackled to life.
“Look at you,” Hank drawled, smoke curling from his nostrils. “All clean and soft. City boy lost in my woods. Ain’t nobody comin’ for miles. You belong to the road now… and the road belongs to me.”
He crouched close, gloved fingers gripping Tyler’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. The heat of the fire danced across Hank’s tattooed arms and leather vest. Tyler’s heart hammered—fear and something darker twisting low in his gut.
Night had fallen by the time Hank loaded his prize back into the truck and drove to the old hunting lodge. Inside, the place smelled of leather, woodsmoke, and dominance. Hank dropped into a massive black leather armchair, boots kicked up on a stool, cigar clamped between his teeth. He’d stripped Tyler of his jeans, leaving him in just a heavy black collar locked around his throat and rope binding his wrists behind his back.
Hank’s boots pressed firmly against Tyler’s bare chest, forcing him down onto his knees on the worn rug. The redneck’s leather pants creaked as he spread his thighs, the bulge obvious. Smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling.
“You got two choices, boy,” Hank said, voice low and rough. “Fight me… and I break you slow. Or you learn real quick what a man like me expects from pretty city strays I pick up off the road.”
Tyler’s breathing was ragged behind the gag. Hank’s gloved hand reached down, stroking his beard thoughtfully before gripping the back of Tyler’s neck and pulling him forward until his face pressed against the warm, musky leather of Hank’s thigh.
The cigar glowed brighter as Hank exhaled a long plume of smoke.
“Welcome to your new life, boy. Ain’t no goin’ back to the city now.”
Hank took his time that night—training, teasing, claiming. The city boy’s muffled sounds only made the redneck smile wider. By morning, Tyler’s eyes were glassy, his body marked with rope burns and the faint scent of cigar smoke and leather. Hank already had plans: a cage in the corner, a set of heavy rubber gear hanging on the wall, and plenty more backroads to patrol for the next lost soul.
Out here, the strong took what they wanted.
And Hank was the strongest.
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