Page 22 of The Biker and His Bride

“Slapped me. Hard. Then kissed the bruise and called it foreplay.” I shuddered. “I decided then. I pawned jewelry, disabled the gate alarms, and ran.”

I forced myself to meet Rogue’s gaze. “I left a million-dollar wedding with nothing but a backpack. I thought my parents would cover it up—quiet annulment, hush money. But Caleb loves attention. He turned it into a manhunt.”

Rogue inhaled, slow and lethal. “And you’re worried that heat lands on us.”

“On you,” I corrected, voice cracking. “On the club. He’ll spin a story: poor fiancé abducted by bikers. It fits the narrative.”

He reached out, thumb brushing away a tear I hadn’t realized slipped free. “Look at me.”

I did. Storm clouds and steel.

“You’re safe here,” he said. “No badge, no billionaire, no trust-fund asshole is walking through that gate without eating dirt first.”

My lip trembled. “You can’t promise that.”

“I just did.”

“But if cops come, they’ll leverage everything.”

He leaned closer. “Then we leverage harder. We’ve got eyes on the county board, sheriff’s office, even the mayor’s cousin owes us favors. And if Caleb shows up? Let’s just say we know how to bury a body deeper than he can dig.”

Fear and relief collided in my chest. “I don’t want you hurt because of me.”

“Hurt?” He huffed a humorless laugh. “Woman, I took a bullet last year over a shipment mix-up and still made church the next morning. We handle hurt. What we don’t handle is betrayal. And you just laid yourself bare. That takes guts.”

I blinked. “You’re not… angry?”

“Angry at him.” He cupped my cheek, gentle where others weren’t. “Proud of you.”

Tears welled. “I’m catching feelings, Logan. Big ones. And I’m scared they’ll screw up everything.”

His thumb traced my lower lip. “Already screwed, angel. I’m in it. Deep.”

A shaky laugh burst out. “Of course you make that sound dirty.”

He smirked, but his gaze softened. “You hungry?”

I sniffed. “For food? Or you?”

“Both,” he said, grin widening. “But first—you call comes first.”

He rose, crossed to his dresser, pulled out a faded tee and a pair of joggers. “Get comfy. I’ll heat soup.”

I stared—dazed, grateful, hopelessly, stupidly in love. “You cook?”

“Instant ramen counts.”

I laughed through a sniffle. “Deal.”

While he clattered in the tiny kitchenette, I changed shirts, folding my anxiety into neat corners. The fabric smelled like cedar and motor oil—him. Safe.

He returned with a steaming bowl and two spoons. “Careful. Nuclear hot.”

We sat cross-legged on the bed, knees brushing. He spoon-fed me noodles, wiping stray broth from my chin like it was normal. Like men like him tucked runaways into beds and fed them midnight snacks.

Halfway through, he set the bowl aside and brushed a noodle from my cleavage, playful. “Waste of carbs.”

“Pervert.”

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