Page 12 of The Biker and His Bride

ROGUE

D iesel slapped a thick manila envelope onto the war-room table hard enough to rattle every shot glass and domino tile on the surface. The brothers went silent. Grease still streaked Diesel’s jaw; his helmet dangled from his left hand like he hadn’t taken time to set it down.

“Courier dropped this at the front gate,” he said. “No return address—just my name and the club crest.”

A prickle crawled up my spine. I slid the flap open.

Glossy eight-by-ten photos spilled across the table: Riley laughing as she served Meadow tequila, Riley perched on the fence while I pointed out the difference between rosemary and thyme, Riley pressed to the stockroom wall—my hands in her hair—her lips swollen from the kiss I’d stolen.

The last shot made my jaw lock. I stood in Maybell’s downtown, holding a brown bag of cotton bras and coconut lotion, smile so stupidly fond it hurt to look at.

Trigger whistled. “Somebody’s carrying a long lens.”

Diesel tossed a folded ivory sheet beside the photos—expensive stationery, aggressive fountain-pen slope:

I thought she’d been kidnapped.

Turns out she traded up for leather and stale beer.

Send Riley home before I take her back in pieces.

Forty-eight hours.

No signature, just an ornate C.

Caleb.

I puffed out a slow breath. “First move: double the gate watch. No brother rides alone. Trigger, shadow Riley. I don’t want her out of sight.”

He nodded, jaw tight.

After midnight Diesel returned with intel. “Caleb’s paying Reaper’s Pride MC—three charters down in Carolina. Word is they’re hurting for cash since the DEA raid. He waved green—they grabbed iron.”

Reaper’s Pride. Rough, reckless, proud of the skull-and-sickle patch on their backs. The kind of crew who burned barns for fun.

“They’ll strike loud,” I said. “Truck convoy, automatic weapons, maybe a pipe bomb for show.”

Nash cracked his knuckles. “We return favor?”

“In spades,” I answered.

We staged at the south warehouse that same night, reinforcing the fence line with concrete barricades. If Pride wanted fireworks, we’d control the stage.

Riley tried to help sandbag the perimeter until I caught her shivering in the cold. I looped my arm around her waist.

“Inside,” I murmured. “One stray round is all it takes.”

“That’s my choice,” she shot back, though fear flickered in her eyes.

“Then choose to live.” I kissed her temple. “Please.”

She relented but only after I promised to come back breathing.

Pride rolled in at 2:47 a.m.—three matte-black pickups, no plates, headlights off. They assumed stealth; our floodlights proved otherwise. Beams exploded across the lot. The lead truck skidded. A pipe bomb arced from its bed and hit the empty storage shed, blooming into orange fire.

Maddox popped the .50 cal from the roof of the tactical van, shredding the driver side of truck two.

Diesel and Nash flanked on bikes, engines howling, semi-autos barking in short, controlled bursts.

Bullets pinged off the armored van, sprayed gravel across my boots.

I raised my shotgun, pumped once, and shattered the radiator of the last pickup.

Steam hissed. The driver bailed, rolling into weeds.

Return fire cut the air—wild, high. Amateurs with more courage than aim. A round clipped my handlebars, snapping the mirror. Another zipped past my ear with a wasp’s whine. Adrenaline sharpened my focus to a razor edge.

“Prez, flank right!” Trigger’s voice crackled over comms.

I obeyed, sweeping wide to funnel Pride away from the warehouses and toward the drainage ditch. Maddox stitched a line of heavy lead across the asphalt, forcing the second truck to swerve. It nose-dived into mud, axle snapping like a gunshot.

Ninety seconds. That’s all it took. Five men zip-tied to a guardrail, one unconscious from a ricochet. No Fire Skulls casualties—just a graze on Rookie Nate’s calf and Trigger nursing a bruised knuckle from decking a runner.

Message received.

We rolled back through the compound gates at dawn Riley waited under the halogen lamps—pale, wide-eyed. The moment my boots hit dirt she flew forward, smashing into my chest. Her palms skated over my shoulders, searching for blood.

“I’m okay,” I rasped.

Tears glittered, but her voice stayed iron. “They could have killed you.”

“Not tonight.”

She tipped her head back, scanning my face as if cataloguing every line. Something in me snapped then—not anger, not relief. Something raw. Need threaded tight with terror. I could have lost her before I’d even claimed her fully.

“Come with me,” I murmured. I laced our fingers and guided her through the quiet corridor to my room. Lock clicked. World narrowed.

Dim light spilled across the sheets. She stood in its path, trembling. “I should shower. You smell like smoke.”

“The smoke can wait.”

I stepped close, hands cupping her cheeks. Her eyes were galaxies—fear, love, relief. I kissed her soft, a promise, then deeper, a claim. She sighed into my mouth; the sound carved every defense from my bones.

My fingers slid under the hem of her borrowed tee, grazing warm skin. “Tell me to stop.”

“Never,” she whispered.

Clothes fell to the floor in a hush of cotton and denim. My calloused palms mapped each new inch like sacred territory—curve of waist, dip of spine, soft swell of hip. Coconut lotion blended with the tang of gunpowder still clinging to my knuckles.

She traced the tiger ink prowling across my ribs, lips grazing scars I’d collected over years of bad luck and worse choices. “Every line tells a story,” she breathed.

“They all end here,” I answered, lifting her, settling her on the edge of the bed. Her thighs parted; heat radiated, beckoning. I swallowed a groan. “You sure?”

Her answer was a roll of her hips that had my vision sparking white.

I kissed my way down her throat, tasting salt and sweetness. Teeth grazed her pulse. She arched. The world shrank to the slide of skin, the hitch of breath, the gasp when I brushed the peak of her breast with my thumb. She dragged nails along my shoulders—sharp, pleading.

“Riley,” I growled, voice wrecked.

“Logan. Please.”

I lowered, tasting the coconut glaze on her belly, reveling in the quiver of her muscles. She threaded fingers through my hair, tugging when my tongue swept lower. Her moan fractured the quiet—half-wild, half-wonder. Every sound she gave me seared into memory.

When I couldn’t take any more teasing—couldn’t stand the ache in my veins—I rose over her, foreheads pressed.

“No one’s taking you,” I vowed.

“Prove it.”

I did—slow at first, letting her adjust, letting us breathe. Then harder, deeper, the mattress groaning under the rhythm of desperation. She met every thrust, nails carving crescents into my shoulder blades, breath hitching, breaking into breathless pleas that broke something holy inside me.

Stars burst behind my eyes when she shattered—tightening around me, pulse hammering against my lips where I swallowed her cry. I followed, pouring everything—fear, rage, devotion—into the woman who turned my world right-side up.

We lay tangled in sheets, sweat cooling. My heart finally slowed. She traced a scar along my chest, voice soft. “Does it ever get quiet?”

“Only when you’re on my pillow.”

A shy smile curved her swollen lips. “That was… wow.”

I chuckled. “Technical term.”

She sobered. “What if Caleb tries again?”

“Then we end it on our terms.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t want more blood.”

“There are other ways.” I thought of the thumb drive Trigger lifted from Pride’s truck—financial ledgers, scheme money linking Caleb to dirty freight beyond state lines. “And we’ve got leverage.”

She exhaled, relief and exhaustion mingling. “I’m scared.”

I brushed hair from her temple. “Me too. But fear makes us sharp.”

Outside, engines rumbled—brothers changing shifts. The eastern sky blushed pink.

I kissed her forehead. “Get some rest. War starts at nine.”

She caught my hand. “Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever happens, I’d choose this again.”

Heat surged—but it was the calm kind, the forever kind. “Same, angel.”

She nestled closer. I closed my eyes, heartbeat syncing with hers—two drums preparing for whatever thunder came next.

And if Caleb Whitmore thought last night was his opening salvo, he’d soon learn Fire Skulls played symphonies in a higher caliber.