Page 11 of The Biker and His Bride
RILEY
G uilt is a stubborn whisper—it crawls into your ear when the room is quiet and reminds you of every secret you’re hiding from the people who deserve the truth.
For two weeks Rogue treated me like I mattered.
Two weeks of calloused hands leaving gentle fingerprints on my waist when he slid behind the bar.
Two weeks of him leaving protein bars and bottled water on my nightstand after long shifts.
Two weeks of him letting me use the laundry machines first—brothers be damned—because he said my delicates didn’t belong in a load full of grease-stained denim.
Two weeks of quiet kisses stolen in the walk-in cooler and a promise of more once life slowed down.
And I repaid him with half-truths.
Tonight the clubhouse was unusually calm: no brawls, no Brielle, no blaring jukebox. The brothers were in the rec room arguing over which action movie to stream. Rogue sat through half of it then headed to the garage to finish patching a fender.
I claimed a headache and retreated to his room, phone in hand, guilt in my gut.
The burner screen glowed as I typed: * *RILEY ANDERSON MISSING CHARLESTON**.
Boom.
My engagement photo splashed across page one of every local news site. Caleb in a charcoal tux, me in a silk sheath dress—his hand splayed across my stomach like he owned every breath. My smile didn’t reach my eyes. It never had.
**SOCIALITE DISAPPEARS WEEKS BEFORE $1M SOCIETY WEDDING.**
**FAMILY, FIANCé OFFER REWARD, PLEAD FOR SAFE RETURN.**
**GROOM CLAIMS FOUL PLAY: ‘SHE’D NEVER RUN WITHOUT A REASON.’**
My pulse spiked. Caleb’s quote twisted my stomach. He knew damn well why I ran. And he knew exactly how to spin the narrative: rich golden boy abandoned by his ungrateful bride. All he had to do was aim a trembling chin at the cameras and hint at kidnapping.
Victim. Martyr. Liar.
My burner pinged low-battery. I tossed it aside and pressed the heels of my palms to my eyes. If law enforcement traced me here—and how long until that happened?—they’d kick in the gates, label Rogue’s club human traffickers, throw cuffs on every patch.
All because I crashed into their world carrying a suitcase full of secrets.
Door hinges creaked. I jerked upright. Rogue filled the doorway—grease on his forearm, hair damp from the shop sink. Concern flickered in his gray eyes.
“Headache?” he asked.
“Something like that,” I whispered.
He shut the door, crossed the room in three strides, and perched on the edge of the bed. “Talk to me, angel.”
I swallowed. The words clawed at my throat. “You ever look at someone and realize you’re the reason trouble might land at their feet?”
His brows knit. “Where’s this coming from?”
I inhaled past the tightness. “I haven’t told you everything.”
He waited—patient, immovable. I found courage in that stillness.
“I Googled myself tonight,” I said. “My parents—Caleb—they’ve got the media spinning a story. Claiming I was kidnapped. Offering a reward. They’re pushing cops to treat it like foul play.”
Rogue’s jaw flexed. “Figured something like that might surface.”
I blinked. “You… knew?”
“Diesel did some digging.” He lifted a shoulder. “I wanted facts. Didn’t want to judge until you were ready to talk.”
A hot surge of shame flooded me. “I should’ve told you.”
“Should’ve, yeah. But you’re telling me now. Keep going.”
I stared at the threadbare quilt, fingers knotting the fabric. “Caleb isn’t the saint they paint him to be. He drinks. A lot. And when he’s drunk he—” My lips trembled. “He’d bruise me where no one could see. Ribs. Thighs. Arms.”
Rogue’s hands fisted on his knees. Fury rolled off him like heatwaves.
“My parents ignored it,” I continued. “They wanted the wedding of the century. Politicians, CEOs, the governor’s daughter as flower girl. Sponsors for charities. My mom booked the cathedral a year out. My dad ponied up for imported orchids and caviar I can’t pronounce.”
“Million-dollar puppet show,” Rogue muttered.
“Exactly.” I swallowed a sob. “I tried to break it off once. Caleb cried, promised rehab. My parents begged me not to embarrass them. Said love is compromise.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yeah.” My throat burned. “Two months ago Caleb was drunk, cornered me in the wine cellar. Said if I ever embarrassed him he’d make sure no one believed me—that he’d ruin me with one phone call. I saw something in his eyes that night that told me he meant it.”
Rogue’s knuckles blanched. “What did he do?”
“Slapped me. Hard. Then kissed the bruise and called it foreplay.” I shuddered. “I decided then. I pawned jewelry, disabled the gate alarms, and ran.”
I forced myself to meet Rogue’s gaze. “I left a million-dollar wedding with nothing but a backpack. I thought my parents would cover it up—quiet annulment, hush money. But Caleb loves attention. He turned it into a manhunt.”
Rogue inhaled, slow and lethal. “And you’re worried that heat lands on us.”
“On you,” I corrected, voice cracking. “On the club. He’ll spin a story: poor fiancé abducted by bikers. It fits the narrative.”
He reached out, thumb brushing away a tear I hadn’t realized slipped free. “Look at me.”
I did. Storm clouds and steel.
“You’re safe here,” he said. “No badge, no billionaire, no trust-fund asshole is walking through that gate without eating dirt first.”
My lip trembled. “You can’t promise that.”
“I just did.”
“But if cops come, they’ll leverage everything.”
He leaned closer. “Then we leverage harder. We’ve got eyes on the county board, sheriff’s office, even the mayor’s cousin owes us favors. And if Caleb shows up? Let’s just say we know how to bury a body deeper than he can dig.”
Fear and relief collided in my chest. “I don’t want you hurt because of me.”
“Hurt?” He huffed a humorless laugh. “Woman, I took a bullet last year over a shipment mix-up and still made church the next morning. We handle hurt. What we don’t handle is betrayal. And you just laid yourself bare. That takes guts.”
I blinked. “You’re not… angry?”
“Angry at him.” He cupped my cheek, gentle where others weren’t. “Proud of you.”
Tears welled. “I’m catching feelings, Logan. Big ones. And I’m scared they’ll screw up everything.”
His thumb traced my lower lip. “Already screwed, angel. I’m in it. Deep.”
A shaky laugh burst out. “Of course you make that sound dirty.”
He smirked, but his gaze softened. “You hungry?”
I sniffed. “For food? Or you?”
“Both,” he said, grin widening. “But first—you call comes first.”
He rose, crossed to his dresser, pulled out a faded tee and a pair of joggers. “Get comfy. I’ll heat soup.”
I stared—dazed, grateful, hopelessly, stupidly in love. “You cook?”
“Instant ramen counts.”
I laughed through a sniffle. “Deal.”
While he clattered in the tiny kitchenette, I changed shirts, folding my anxiety into neat corners. The fabric smelled like cedar and motor oil—him. Safe.
He returned with a steaming bowl and two spoons. “Careful. Nuclear hot.”
We sat cross-legged on the bed, knees brushing. He spoon-fed me noodles, wiping stray broth from my chin like it was normal. Like men like him tucked runaways into beds and fed them midnight snacks.
Halfway through, he set the bowl aside and brushed a noodle from my cleavage, playful. “Waste of carbs.”
“Pervert.”
“Your pervert.”
Warmth flared. “Yeah,” I whispered. “Yours.”
Silence bloomed—soft, heavy with possibility.
His hand slid to the nape of my neck, tugging me forward. The kiss was slow, reverent, nothing like the greedy collisions we’d shared before. It tasted like trust earned, truths spoken, futures maybe possible.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine. “Sleep,” he murmured. “We’ll plan in the morning.”
I traced the tattoo on his forearm. “You’re really not afraid of Caleb?”
He chuckled—dark, dangerous. “He should be afraid of us.”
Sleep tugged at my lashes. For the first time since I’d fled Charleston, exhaustion felt safe. I let my head drop to his chest, heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
Just before drifting off, I mumbled, “Thank you for believing me.”
His arms tightened. “Thank you for surviving.”
The guilt’s whisper finally faded, drowned by the steady drum of his heart—and the promise that whatever storms hunted me, I wouldn’t face them alone.
Not anymore.