Page 26 of The Biker and His Bride

Soft morning light filtered through the blinds, striping Rogue’s chest in pale gold and shadow. I traced a beam across the tiger tattoo, letting my fingertip wander until it met the rhythm of his heart. Last night’s adrenaline had been worked from our blood—first through bullets, then through desperate, claiming touch. Now only the hum of possibility remained.

He cracked one eye open. “Staring again?”

“Cataloguing,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “In case I need a reference.”

“Plenty of opportunities coming.” He rolled, pinning me to the mattress with a grin that could melt steel. Sheets tangled around our hips; skin slid on skin. I arched, welcoming the slow slide of him—lazy, unhurried, as if the world outside these four walls had stopped. Minutes later I clenched around him, pulse skittering, and the timbre of his groan vibrated straight down my spine. When quiet reclaimed the room, we lay tangled, sweat-slick and grinning like thieves.

I forgot what this felt like. The fire… tingles and throaty moans. He brought back pieces of me I had lost to Caleb.Romance. Lust. Longing… feeling the sweet release and falling into safety after.

A thought speared my post-orgasm haze—cold and sharp. I bolted upright. “I remember something.”

He pushed up on an elbow. “Talk to me.”

“Caleb’s father took a group of donors to a hunting cabin in the FrancisMarion woods—way off the highway. Caleb bragged about it later. Said his dad closed deals there because no one could hear you scream over the coyotes.” I shivered.

Rogue’s eyes narrowed. “You think that’s where they launder?”

“I think it’s where they store ledgers, cash, bribe lists—everything.” I climbed out of bed, snatching one of his white tees off the floor. “They hosted ‘non-profit retreats,’ but it was a cover. They’d pitch projects—veteran housing, reading programs—secure state grants, then funnel the money through shell charities and pay contractors who were really family. The cabin was the meeting hub.”

He swung his legs over the edge, reaching for jeans. “You remember where it is?”

“Roughly. Two hours south of Charleston, near McClellanville. Gravel service road, no signage. My dad complained the suspension on his Benz hated it.” I dug through his nightstand until I found a pencil and a blank invoice. “Give me a minute.”

We spread the sheet on the mattress between us like pirates plotting treasure routes. Eyes closed, I summoned the memory: Spanish moss dripping over a muddy creek; the crunch of oyster shells under expensive tires; a rust-red mailbox with no address—only a turkey feather wedged in the flag.

I sketched: Highway17 cutting north to south. An unmarked right turn past a derelict gas station that never sold gas. Five miles of ruts and swamp until a fork—left fork chained, rightfork open. The cabin sat another mile down, ringed by camellias too prissy for wild land. A generator shed. A steel shipping container rusting behind palmettos. And a cement storm cellar Caleb once joked was “good for storing inconvenient truths.”

Rogue watched, hand on my knee, thumb stroking a soothing line up and down. When I dropped the pencil, he lifted the sheet, studying. “If this is real, it’s our smoking gun.”

“We’ll need proof,” I said. “Paper trails. Photos. Something that ties Caleb or Senator Whitmore to fraud.”

He tapped the storm-cellar box I’d shaded. “That’s where we look first. Trigger can rig cameras. Diesel’s got lockpicks.”

“Motion sensors, maybe,” I added. “Bring an RF jammer.”

A slow smile curved his mouth—equal parts predator and planner. “You really are the perfect partner in crime.”

Heat rose in my cheeks. “You taught me about shotgun spread. I can teach you about white-collar theft.”

He folded the map, tucking it into his back pocket. Then he cupped my face, thumb brushing the bruise Brielle’s ring had left. “You sure you’re ready to take them down?”

“I’ve been ready since the first time Caleb said no one would believe me.” My voice trembled with equal measures fear and fury. “Let’s become believers.”

He kissed me—slow, sealing a vow. “We ride at dawn. But first—I’m feeding you pancakes. War needs carbs.”

I laughed, tension easing. “Deal. Then we burn their kingdom to the ground.”

Outside, engines rumbled as the brothers switched shifts, unaware a plan was already taking root. Inside, Rogue slipped his fingers through mine—steady, solid—a reminder that whatever darkness lay on that moss-draped road, we’d face it together.

And this time, no one would hear Caleb scream but us.

12

ROGUE

It wasn’t quiet anymore. We fended off the first attack. But more were coming. Someone else was laying in wait.

It started two nights ago—an unmarked white van parked half a mile up the ridge. No plates, no driver in sight, just headlights cutting through the fog like a pair of dead eyes. Then came the drones, low hums overhead when Riley and I were talking strategy in the garden. Diesel shot one out of the sky with a scoped .22, but two more buzzed past before we could scramble the signal.

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