Page 32 of The Biker and His Bride

He tried to raise the gun again—Trigger’s knife thunked into his chest. End of story.

I gathered Riley close, breathing her in. “You okay, angel?”

She nodded into my cut. “I knew you’d come.”

Diesel tossed me a battered briefcase—ledgers, flash drives, blackmail strong enough to topple a dynasty. It would be Riley and our deadman’s switch. Or our leverage if we needed it. Caleb was gone and hid daddy better not ask too many questions. We called in a clean up crew to frame the Reapers for the hit.

Outside, engines rumbled. I swung Riley onto my bike. I revved the throttle; the cabin burned behind us. “Ride or die,” I said.

“Take me home,” she answered, arms tight around me as we roared into the dark.

16

RILEY

When the dust finally settled and I was safe again, wrapped in Rogue’s arms, I couldn’t tell where the bruises stopped and the healing began.

I’d never been touched like that—so gently, yet with a fire in every stroke. He didn’t rush, didn’t demand. He kissed the corners of my lips, the bruises on my jaw, and ran his calloused hands over my body like he was memorizing me. Every inch.

We made love like the world had almost ended—and somehow, we were still standing. Then he carried me to the clawfoot tub in his private bathroom, one I hadn’t even known existed behind the hidden doorway upstairs. He bathed me with warm lavender soap, kneeling beside the tub, rinsing my hair with water poured from a ceramic pitcher, like I was something holy.

Afterward, he wrapped me in a soft towel and carried me to bed.

“I’m going to feed you,” he said with a slow, teasing grin.

He cooked grilled cheese with tomatoes and a little basil—his version of comfort food, he said—and poured me a glass of wine. We sat on the back porch, under the stars, with my legs curledunder his leather cut. He tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, leaned in, kissed me on the mouth, and whispered, “I’ll be back, baby girl.”

And then he was gone.

Two hours passed.

When I heard the low rumble of his Harley returning, my heart flipped in my chest like a teenager waiting for her crush. He walked in with a velvet box and that same unreadable look on his face he always wore when he was feeling everything but didn’t want to show it.

He got down on one knee.

The box opened to reveal the most beautiful platinum engagement ring I’d ever seen—cushion cut, bold, elegant, surrounded by tiny diamonds that caught the light like stars. It was everything I wasn’t allowed to pick with Caleb. This one was mine. It was me.

“Don’t run from me,” he said, voice husky. “We’re flying out with the whole damn crew. Vegas. Chapel. Champagne. You, me, the altar. No more hiding. No more secrets. You’re one of us now. And once you’re my wife, you can’t ever testify against me in court.”

I laughed and sobbed and said yes all in the same breath.

He picked me up and spun me around, and we started packing that night.

Vegas hitme like a bottle of chilled champagne to the face.

Everything sparkled. Even the air. Neon streaked across every surface. Slot machines screamed. Limos rolled up. The strip glittered under sun and stars, crowds spilling out insequins and stilettos, bachelorettes hooting, tourists throwing dice and dreams all in the same motion.

We checked into a high-rise overlooking the Bellagio fountains. Rogue got a suite—one with a heart-shaped tub and a mirrored ceiling, because of course he did.

“You sure you want to marry me in a city that never sleeps?” he teased, peeling off his shirt.

“I want to marry you anywhere,” I whispered.

And I meant it.

I splurged. For once in my life, I wanted to be a bride on my own terms. No politics. No guest list of strangers. No cold, pristine Charleston ballroom.

Just me.

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