Page 23 of The Biker and His Bride

“Your pervert.”

Warmth flared. “Yeah,” I whispered. “Yours.”

Silence bloomed—soft, heavy with possibility.

His hand slid to the nape of my neck, tugging me forward. The kiss was slow, reverent, nothing like the greedy collisions we’d shared before. It tasted like trust earned, truths spoken, futures maybe possible.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine. “Sleep,” he murmured. “We’ll plan in the morning.”

I traced the tattoo on his forearm. “You’re really not afraid of Caleb?”

He chuckled—dark, dangerous. “He should be afraid of us.”

Sleep tugged at my lashes. For the first time since I’d fled Charleston, exhaustion felt safe. I let my head drop to his chest, heartbeat steady beneath my ear.

Just before drifting off, I mumbled, “Thank you for believing me.”

His arms tightened. “Thank you for surviving.”

The guilt’s whisper finally faded, drowned by the steady drum of his heart—and the promise that whatever storms hunted me, I wouldn’t face them alone.

Not anymore.

10

ROGUE

Diesel slapped a thick manila envelope onto the war-room table hard enough to rattle every shot glass and domino tile on the surface. The brothers went silent. Grease still streaked Diesel’s jaw; his helmet dangled from his left hand like he hadn’t taken time to set it down.

“Courier dropped this at the front gate,” he said. “No return address—just my name and the club crest.”

A prickle crawled up my spine. I slid the flap open. Glossy eight-by-ten photos spilled across the table: Riley laughing as she served Meadow tequila, Riley perched on the fence while I pointed out the difference between rosemary and thyme, Riley pressed to the stockroom wall—my hands in her hair—her lips swollen from the kiss I’d stolen.

The last shot made my jaw lock. I stood in Maybell’s downtown, holding a brown bag of cotton bras and coconut lotion, smile so stupidly fond it hurt to look at.

Trigger whistled. “Somebody’s carrying a long lens.”

Diesel tossed a folded ivory sheet beside the photos—expensive stationery, aggressive fountain-pen slope:

I thought she’d been kidnapped.

Turns out she traded up for leather and stale beer.

Send Riley home before I take her back in pieces.

Forty-eight hours.

No signature, just an ornate C.

Caleb.

I puffed out a slow breath. “First move: double the gate watch. No brother rides alone. Trigger, shadow Riley. I don’t want her out of sight.”

He nodded, jaw tight.

After midnight Diesel returned with intel. “Caleb’s paying Reaper’s Pride MC—three charters down in Carolina. Word is they’re hurting for cash since the DEA raid. He waved green—they grabbed iron.”

Reaper’s Pride. Rough, reckless, proud of the skull-and-sickle patch on their backs. The kind of crew who burned barns for fun.

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