Page 24 of The Biker and His Bride

“They’ll strike loud,” I said. “Truck convoy, automatic weapons, maybe a pipe bomb for show.”

Nash cracked his knuckles. “We return favor?”

“In spades,” I answered.

We staged at the south warehouse that same night, reinforcing the fence line with concrete barricades. If Pride wanted fireworks, we’d control the stage.

Riley tried to help sandbag the perimeter until I caught her shivering in the cold. I looped my arm around her waist.

“Inside,” I murmured. “One stray round is all it takes.”

“That’s my choice,” she shot back, though fear flickered in her eyes.

“Then choose to live.” I kissed her temple. “Please.”

She relented but only after I promised to come back breathing.

Pride rolled in at 2:47 a.m.—three matte-black pickups, no plates, headlights off. They assumed stealth; our floodlightsproved otherwise. Beams exploded across the lot. The lead truck skidded. A pipe bomb arced from its bed and hit the empty storage shed, blooming into orange fire.

Maddox popped the .50 cal from the roof of the tactical van, shredding the driver side of truck two. Diesel and Nash flanked on bikes, engines howling, semi-autos barking in short, controlled bursts. Bullets pinged off the armored van, sprayed gravel across my boots. I raised my shotgun, pumped once, and shattered the radiator of the last pickup. Steam hissed. The driver bailed, rolling into weeds.

Return fire cut the air—wild, high. Amateurs with more courage than aim. A round clipped my handlebars, snapping the mirror. Another zipped past my ear with a wasp’s whine. Adrenaline sharpened my focus to a razor edge.

“Prez, flank right!” Trigger’s voice crackled over comms.

I obeyed, sweeping wide to funnel Pride away from the warehouses and toward the drainage ditch. Maddox stitched a line of heavy lead across the asphalt, forcing the second truck to swerve. It nose-dived into mud, axle snapping like a gunshot.

Ninety seconds. That’s all it took. Five men zip-tied to a guardrail, one unconscious from a ricochet. No Fire Skulls casualties—just a graze on Rookie Nate’s calf and Trigger nursing a bruised knuckle from decking a runner.

Message received.

We rolled back through the compound gates at dawn Riley waited under the halogen lamps—pale, wide-eyed. The moment my boots hit dirt she flew forward, smashing into my chest. Her palms skated over my shoulders, searching for blood.

“I’m okay,” I rasped.

Tears glittered, but her voice stayed iron. “They could have killed you.”

“Not tonight.”

She tipped her head back, scanning my face as if cataloguing every line. Something in me snapped then—not anger, not relief. Something raw. Need threaded tight with terror. I could have lost her before I’d even claimed her fully.

“Come with me,” I murmured. I laced our fingers and guided her through the quiet corridor to my room. Lock clicked. World narrowed.

Dim light spilled across the sheets. She stood in its path, trembling. “I should shower. You smell like smoke.”

“The smoke can wait.”

I stepped close, hands cupping her cheeks. Her eyes were galaxies—fear, love, relief. I kissed her soft, a promise, then deeper, a claim. She sighed into my mouth; the sound carved every defense from my bones.

My fingers slid under the hem of her borrowed tee, grazing warm skin. “Tell me to stop.”

“Never,” she whispered.

Clothes fell to the floor in a hush of cotton and denim. My calloused palms mapped each new inch like sacred territory—curve of waist, dip of spine, soft swell of hip. Coconut lotion blended with the tang of gunpowder still clinging to my knuckles.

She traced the tiger ink prowling across my ribs, lips grazing scars I’d collected over years of bad luck and worse choices. “Every line tells a story,” she breathed.

“They all end here,” I answered, lifting her, settling her on the edge of the bed. Her thighs parted; heat radiated, beckoning. I swallowed a groan. “You sure?”

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