Page 41 of The Biker and His Bride

I kicked up the stand, and we thundered off the island bridge, wind whipping her hair into gold flames.

Four hours later we rolled through Fire Skulls’s gates. Engines idled. Brothers gathered, nodding greetings. Trigger handed me a beer. Diesel whistled low at Riley’s sun-kissed legs.

“Damn, Prez,” he said. “Island life looks good on both of you.”

Riley blushed; I glared, and Diesel backed off, chuckling.

Inside, the clubhouse felt smaller, louder, rougher after our week of surf and hush. Riley bit her lip, scanning the bunk rooms, the bar, the row of helmets hung on pegs.

“This used to feel like home,” she murmured. “Now it’s… loud.”

“We’ll build quiet,” I promised, steering her toward the back door. Beyond the fence, a rough patch of pines sloped down to a creek. I pointed. “Cabin goes there. Two rooms, big windows, wood stove. Privacy. Until the main house.”

Her eyes shone again—hope, relief, love all tangled. She turned beneath my arm and pressed her lips to mine, simple and sweet.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“For what?”

“For giving me everything I never dreamed I could ask for.”

I kissed her again—deeper this time, tongues tangling, not caring who saw. The club hollered behind us, whistling, catcalling. I flipped them off without breaking the kiss.

“Get a room!” Pitbull roared.

“Building one!” I shot back.

Riley laughed into my mouth.

That night, after the clubhouse quieted, I sprawled on the cot with her curled against me, and planned the cabin walls in my head—plank by plank, nail by nail. I pictured a porch swing, a baby cradle, a life strung between ocean breezes and engine growls.

Sleep tugged, but I fought it just long enough to whisper a prayer I didn’t know I still believed in:

Let the seed take root.

Let her carry sun and storm inside her.

Let this outlaw’s heart finally grow something soft.

Then I slept, one hand on her belly, dreams filled with coconut, tide songs, and the laughter of a child I hadn’t met yet—but already loved.

21

RILEY

One month.

That’s how long it had been since we rolled back from the Isle of Palms with sand still in our shoes and coconut lotion still perfuming every inch of my skin. One month since Rogue whispered promises against my belly about cabins and babies and ocean-view dream houses. One month of me helping stock bottles behind Fire Skulls’s bar while construction crews hammered pilings for a one-bedroom cabin just beyond the pines.

I loved watching the cabin rise—loved the smell of fresh-cut lumber and the way Rogue’s shoulders flexed when he swung a hammer. But by day twenty-eight, the itch started. An old itch I’d once tried to scratch with debutante luncheons and charity galas—only now, chiffon and white gloves felt like foreign skin. I needed purpose, something that fused my new world and the one I’d left behind.

So I took a walk through Sable Creek’s tiny downtown.

Three blocks of weathered storefronts, moss-draped live oaks, and streetlamps wrapped in twinkle lights. The florist waved from behind tulips. The antique shop smelled like dustand memories. There was charm here—raw, unpolished charm begging for a lick of paint and a vision.

Vision was something I had in spades.

By the time I returned to the clubhouse, my phone buzzed nonstop. The moment I’d resurfaced on social media post-“kidnapping,” Charleston society had gone feral. They wanted to know everything: How did I meet Rogue? Was it true we married in Vegas? Were those *real* diamonds? Every filter-perfect photo I posted of our cabin build racked up thousands of likes from sorority sisters and bored trophy wives sipping lunchtime rosé.

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