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PROLOGUE
ROGUE
The whiskey burned, but not as much as the sight of Brielle’s overstuffed closet spilling across the hardwood like the aftermath of a storm. Leather skirts, sequin tops, three different pairs of red stilettos—souvenirs from nights she swore she spent “with the girls.” Lies, all of it.
“Logan, baby, please—” Her voice cracked as she tried to yank a satin dress from my fist.
“It’s Rogue,” I snapped. “And I’m done repeating myself.”
Suitcase number three lay open on the bed, zipper teeth glinting like a threat. I shoved the dress inside, uncaring if it wrinkled. Another drawer yanked, more lingerie I’d never seen. My jaw clenched so tight my molars ached.
Brielle scrambled after me, mascara streaking down her cheeks. “It was one mistake.”
“One?” I barked a humorless laugh, tossing lacy scraps after the dress. “Try three. Different guys, different lies. Club business is one thing—my woman screwing a rival patch? We’re finished.”
Her hands shook as she clutched the suitcase lid. “I love you.”
I stilled, the words slicing deeper than I wanted to admit. For one stupid second I pictured the early days: her sitting onmy bike, hair whipping, my cut slung around her shoulders like she’d earned it. Then I pictured the photos Diesel showed me—Brielle wrapped around a Reaper’s Pride executive, lips on his throat. The hurt iced over, hardening into something cold, unbreakable.
“You love the lifestyle,” I said. “You love the attention. You never loved me.”
She sobbed, reaching for my arm. I stepped back, letting her fingers close on empty air. “Get your shit. You’re out.”
I hauled the suitcase off the bed, snapped it shut, and wheeled it to the hallway. She followed, barefoot, pleading. Each apology washed over me like cheap booze—bitter, useless.
Downstairs, the brothers lingered near the front door, arms folded, faces stone. Not here to humiliate—just to make sure she actually left. Trigger opened the door when he saw me. Summer night air spilled in, thick with pine and diesel.
“Rogue, don’t do this,” she rasped, mascara streaks shining in porch light.
I grabbed the other case, handed it off to Pitbull. “Load it.”
“On it, Prez.” Pitbull hauled the luggage down the steps toward her cherry-red Mustang.
Brielle clutched the doorframe, eyes wild. “You’ll regret this. No one will love you like I?—”
“Save it.” My voice came out flat, deadly calm. “You’re done here. Club property, club secrets—keep your mouth shut.”
She hesitated. I raised one brow. Even she knew that look. She swallowed, wiped her cheeks, and stormed down the steps.
I watched her taillights flare, engine roar, gravel spitting as she jerked onto the road. Red dots shrank between the pines until darkness swallowed them.
Trigger closed the door. Silence settled like dust.
Inside my chest, something twisted—part betrayal, part raw grief—but I stamped it down. Couldn’t show that to the brothers. Couldn’t let another woman carve me open like that again.
“Get some rest,” I told them, voice rough. “Church at nine.”
They dispersed without a word. I locked the door, leaned my back against the wood, and exhaled a breath that felt like it’d been trapped forever.
Heartbroken? Maybe. But colder. Stronger.
Lesson learned: Don’t trust easy smiles and cheap promises.
From here on out, my heart was off-limits.
Or so I thought.
PROLOGUE