Page 33 of The Biker and His Bride

And him.

I picked a gown that made me feel like a goddess—soft ivory silk that hugged my curves, a daring slit up one leg, off-the-shoulder sleeves, and delicate silver beading that shimmered when I walked. My hair was down in waves, lips a wine-stained red. Rogue wore a black suit with his cut over it, boots polished, hair slicked back, and a look in his eyes that made my knees go weak.

We stood outside the Little White Chapel with the MC surrounding us—Diesel, Trigger, Nash, Pitbull, even Maddox, who swore he’d never set foot in Nevada again. They wore black jeans and button-downs, their cuts proud. We were a family.

The ceremony was short, but perfect. The Elvis impersonator gave a nod to the King, but it wasn’t a joke. There were tears in Rogue’s eyes when I walked down the tiny aisle, bouquet in hand, music playing low behind me. He watched me like a man seeing sunlight for the first time.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he whispered when I reached him.

And I believed him.

We said our vows—honest, raw, unscripted. We kissed like we meant it. And then the chapel erupted in applause.

Outside, Trigger popped the first bottle of champagne. Bubbles flew. I laughed as Rogue dipped me and kissed me again, his arms strong, steady, sure.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Diesel muttered with a grin, glass raised. “Rogue Thorne, married man. Hell just froze over.”

“To Rogue and Riley,” Nash said, lifting his cup. “May she keep him alive and out of jail, and may she always keep him whipped.”

Laughter rolled like thunder. Rogue smirked and grabbed my waist. “Only one I’m ever letting tie me up is her.”

We hit the rooftop bar overlooking the Strip. Strings of lights glowed overhead. Music pulsed from speakers, bass low and smooth. Someone ordered piña coladas, and we danced barefoot under the stars.

And later, after the crowd thinned, Rogue took me by the hand to the rooftop pool. I still wore my gown. He still wore his boots. But none of it mattered when he lifted me into his arms and kissed me under the neon sky, then pulled me into the pool, clothes and all.

The water was warm. His hands were hotter.

We made love there in the shallow end, half-hidden by steam and shadows and the promise that this time, I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Mrs. Rogue Thorne.

Forever.

17

ROGUE

The morning sun filtered through the blinds of our Vegas suite, catching the soft shimmer of her skin where the sheets had slipped low across her hips. Riley lay beside me, lips parted, hair tangled from the night before, her breathing slow and steady. I watched her sleep like a man watching salvation and tried to catch my damn breath.

She was mine now. Legally, spiritually, in every way that counted.

The ring on her finger sparkled as she shifted, fingers curling toward my side like she was drawn to me even in her dreams.

I lay back, one arm folded behind my head, staring at the ceiling. It still felt like a dream. The last few days had been a storm of blood, fire, and adrenaline. But in the middle of all that chaos, I’d found her. And I wasn’t letting go.

My mind drifted—back to that moment.

We’d raided the cabin like shadows, my boys flanking the perimeter, weapons drawn, hearts pounding. I’d kicked the door in, gun first, and there she was—tied to a chair, eyes wide, lip bleeding. My name tore out of her throat and I dropped the pistol before I even crossed the room. The bastard guarding herdidn’t even have time to blink before I cracked him across the jaw with my elbow and sent him flying into the wall.

“Riley,” I’d breathed, untying her with hands that shook.

“You came,” she whispered.

“Always.”

Now here we were. Vegas. Married. Safe—for now.

She stirred and opened her eyes, blinking into the morning light.

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