Page 17 of The Biker and His Bride

ROGUE

T he night air tasted like gunpowder and rain. I straddled my Harley at the edge of Whitmore land, brothers flanking me in a half-moon of idling bikes. Caleb had Riley. I’d warned him once; now he’d hear me loud.

Trigger’s voice crackled in my ear: “Two guards on the porch—armed.”

I signaled. Diesel and Nash melted into shadow. Pitbull hefted thermite, grinning like it was Christmas.

“Move.”

Gunfire shattered the quiet—Maddox’s rifle from the tree line. Guards dropped. Trigger breached the back door; I hit the kitchen, shotgun barking. The house rattled with echoes.

I found Caleb in the study, fist in Riley’s hair, pistol at her temple. Her eyes—fear, fury, faith—locked on mine.

“Drop it,” I snarled.

He sneered. “You shoot, you hit her.”

Behind him, Pitbull kicked in the patio doors. Caleb flinched. Riley drove an elbow into his ribs. The muzzle wavered; I fired.

One round, center-mass. Caleb staggered. Riley broke free. Blood bloomed crimson on designer white.

He tried to raise the gun again—Trigger’s knife thunked into his chest. End of story.

I gathered Riley close, breathing her in. “You okay, angel?”

She nodded into my cut. “I knew you’d come.”

Diesel tossed me a battered briefcase—ledgers, flash drives, blackmail strong enough to topple a dynasty.

It would be Riley and our deadman’s switch.

Or our leverage if we needed it. Caleb was gone and hid daddy better not ask too many questions.

We called in a clean up crew to frame the Reapers for the hit.

Outside, engines rumbled. I swung Riley onto my bike. I revved the throttle; the cabin burned behind us. “Ride or die,” I said.

“Take me home,” she answered, arms tight around me as we roared into the dark.