Page 35 of The Biker and His Bride

“You’re perfect.”

And I meant it.

Because for all the fires we’d walked through, all the battles we’d fought, I knew one thing:

I’d ride into hell for this woman.

But for once, I was hoping heaven was next.

18

RILEY

Charleston looked different than I remembered. Maybe it was me who’d changed.

The Spanish moss hung heavy over the oaks, gas lanterns flickered outside three-story white-columned homes, and manicured lawns stretched like polite lies across every block. I used to find comfort in the order, the neatness, the hush-hush perfection. But now, riding shotgun next to Rogue on his matte-black Harley, I just felt... itchy.

I adjusted my sunglasses as we turned onto my parents’ street—brick-lined and pristine, with Range Rovers parked in circular drives and not a single oil stain in sight.

“They gonna shoot me on sight, you think?” Rogue muttered with a smirk, glancing at his reflection in the side mirror. He’d done his best—dark dress shirt, pressed slacks, boots polished. He even left the cut at the hotel and buttoned the shirt to the collar. But no amount of starch could hide the tattoos peeking up his neck or the raw power he carried like a second skin.

“You look... respectable,” I said, trying not to laugh.

“I look like a wolf in Sunday school.”

“Don’t bite anyone.”

“No promises.”

My parents' door opened before we even reached the top step. My mother stood stiff and slim in pearls and pale linen, her blonde bob helmet-perfect. My father wore a blazer, white slacks, and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Riley,” my mother said, stepping forward to kiss the air beside my cheek. “We were so worried. And this must be... your husband.”

Rogue offered his hand. “Rogue Thorne, ma’am.”

She blinked once. “I’m sorry?”

“Rogue,” I repeated. “It’s his name.”

My father took the handshake, clearly surprised by Rogue’s firm grip and the respectful way he used “sir.”

We went inside. The house was spotless and silent, full of old paintings and the kind of furniture you weren’t allowed to sit on growing up. Rogue looked around like he was in a museum.

“You grew up here?” he asked softly.

“Yeah.”

He nodded, almost respectfully, and I saw it hit him—how different our worlds were. But he didn’t mock it. Didn’t sneer. He just took it in.

Brunch was scheduled at the country club, naturally.

By the time we walked through the wide front doors of Charleston Oak Reserve, every eye in the place turned. The women froze mid-bite, mimosas halfway to their mouths. The men looked up, frowns forming even before their wives remembered to close theirs.

Rogue strolled in, hand around my waist, looking like sin in dress shoes. His tattoos peeked out just enough. His jaw was freshly shaved but defiant. He radiated danger wrapped in heat.

The Southern belles didn’t know what to do with themselves.

They looked like they’d seen a ghost.

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