Page 8 of The Biker and His Bride

Pitbull, twice as wide as I was tall, blinked like a chastised kid. “He called my sister a?—”

“I don’t care,” Rogue barked, inches from his face. “You think you bleed in my bar over words?”

Nate tried to scramble up. Rogue’s free hand shot out, fisting the front of Nate’s shirt. “You stay right there, Rookie.”

The room went still, every prospect and patched brother watching.

Rogue released Pitbull just enough to spin him toward Nate. Then he pushed them both until they stood side by side like schoolboys caught cheating.

“I’m feeling generous,” Rogue said, voice low but carrying. “You wanna fight? You do it in the ring tomorrow. Gloves on. Winner buys the loser’s sister a damn apology bouquet. Tonight? You’re mopping floors.”

He turned, scanning the bar. Broken glass, overturned chairs, a pool of beer creeping toward my boots.

“Trigger!” Rogue shouted.

Trigger appeared. “Yeah, Prez?”

“Hand these two idiots a mop. They’re cleaning every inch of this place. Bathrooms too.”

Pitbull opened his mouth. Rogue’s stare cut him off.

“Problem?” Rogue asked, lethal calm.

“No, Prez,” Pitbull muttered.

Rogue pointed to the mess. “Move.”

Muttering curses, the two men stomped off to fetch buckets and mops.

Only then did Rogue turn back to me. His eyes, granite-gray moments ago, softened just a fraction.

“You okay?”

My knees wobbled. “Yeah. Thanks to you. But my right cheek could use an ice pack.”

He frowned at my shaking hands, then gently pried the rag from my grip. “You’re done for tonight.”

“I can finish?—”

“You’re done,” he repeated, softer but iron-strong. “Go upstairs. My room’s unlocked. Use the shower, grab a T-shirt. I’ll be up once these clowns finish.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. Upstairs? His room? “Rogue, I?—”

He leaned in, voice barely a whisper. “Not for that. You’re rattled. And I need to know you’re safe.”

My chest tightened. I nodded.

He straightened, spun on his heel, and stalked toward Pitbull and Nate, who were now sloshing suds across the sticky floor. He barked orders—where to scrub, what to disinfect—Judge, Jury, Deliverance. The entire clubhouse fell under his command like dominoes.

I slipped behind the bar and headed for the back stairs, Rogue’s gravel-soft promise echoing in my ears.

*I need to know you’re safe.* He was sincere. No mask. Just raw and honest.

For the first time in years—maybe ever—I believed someone meant it.

4

ROGUE

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