Page 18 of The Biker and His Bride

RILEY

W hen the dust finally settled and I was safe again, wrapped in Rogue’s arms, I couldn’t tell where the bruises stopped and the healing began.

I’d never been touched like that—so gently, yet with a fire in every stroke. He didn’t rush, didn’t demand. He kissed the corners of my lips, the bruises on my jaw, and ran his calloused hands over my body like he was memorizing me. Every inch.

We made love like the world had almost ended—and somehow, we were still standing.

Then he carried me to the clawfoot tub in his private bathroom, one I hadn’t even known existed behind the hidden doorway upstairs.

He bathed me with warm lavender soap, kneeling beside the tub, rinsing my hair with water poured from a ceramic pitcher, like I was something holy.

Afterward, he wrapped me in a soft towel and carried me to bed.

“I’m going to feed you,” he said with a slow, teasing grin.

He cooked grilled cheese with tomatoes and a little basil—his version of comfort food, he said—and poured me a glass of wine.

We sat on the back porch, under the stars, with my legs curled under his leather cut.

He tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, leaned in, kissed me on the mouth, and whispered, “I’ll be back, baby girl. ”

And then he was gone.

Two hours passed.

When I heard the low rumble of his Harley returning, my heart flipped in my chest like a teenager waiting for her crush. He walked in with a velvet box and that same unreadable look on his face he always wore when he was feeling everything but didn’t want to show it.

He got down on one knee.

The box opened to reveal the most beautiful platinum engagement ring I’d ever seen—cushion cut, bold, elegant, surrounded by tiny diamonds that caught the light like stars. It was everything I wasn’t allowed to pick with Caleb. This one was mine. It was me.

“Don’t run from me,” he said, voice husky. “We’re flying out with the whole damn crew. Vegas. Chapel. Champagne. You, me, the altar. No more hiding. No more secrets. You’re one of us now. And once you’re my wife, you can’t ever testify against me in court.”

I laughed and sobbed and said yes all in the same breath.

He picked me up and spun me around, and we started packing that night.

Vegas hit me like a bottle of chilled champagne to the face.

Everything sparkled. Even the air. Neon streaked across every surface. Slot machines screamed. Limos rolled up. The strip glittered under sun and stars, crowds spilling out in sequins and stilettos, bachelorettes hooting, tourists throwing dice and dreams all in the same motion.

We checked into a high-rise overlooking the Bellagio fountains. Rogue got a suite—one with a heart-shaped tub and a mirrored ceiling, because of course he did.

“You sure you want to marry me in a city that never sleeps?” he teased, peeling off his shirt.

“I want to marry you anywhere,” I whispered.

And I meant it.

I splurged. For once in my life, I wanted to be a bride on my own terms. No politics. No guest list of strangers. No cold, pristine Charleston ballroom.

Just me.

And him.

I picked a gown that made me feel like a goddess—soft ivory silk that hugged my curves, a daring slit up one leg, off-the-shoulder sleeves, and delicate silver beading that shimmered when I walked.

My hair was down in waves, lips a wine-stained red.

Rogue wore a black suit with his cut over it, boots polished, hair slicked back, and a look in his eyes that made my knees go weak.

We stood outside the Little White Chapel with the MC surrounding us—Diesel, Trigger, Nash, Pitbull, even Maddox, who swore he’d never set foot in Nevada again. They wore black jeans and button-downs, their cuts proud. We were a family.

The ceremony was short, but perfect. The Elvis impersonator gave a nod to the King, but it wasn’t a joke. There were tears in Rogue’s eyes when I walked down the tiny aisle, bouquet in hand, music playing low behind me. He watched me like a man seeing sunlight for the first time.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he whispered when I reached him.

And I believed him.

We said our vows—honest, raw, unscripted. We kissed like we meant it. And then the chapel erupted in applause.

Outside, Trigger popped the first bottle of champagne. Bubbles flew. I laughed as Rogue dipped me and kissed me again, his arms strong, steady, sure.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Diesel muttered with a grin, glass raised. “Rogue Thorne, married man. Hell just froze over.”

“To Rogue and Riley,” Nash said, lifting his cup. “May she keep him alive and out of jail, and may she always keep him whipped.”

Laughter rolled like thunder. Rogue smirked and grabbed my waist. “Only one I’m ever letting tie me up is her.”

We hit the rooftop bar overlooking the Strip. Strings of lights glowed overhead. Music pulsed from speakers, bass low and smooth. Someone ordered pina coladas, and we danced barefoot under the stars.

And later, after the crowd thinned, Rogue took me by the hand to the rooftop pool. I still wore my gown. He still wore his boots. But none of it mattered when he lifted me into his arms and kissed me under the neon sky, then pulled me into the pool, clothes and all.

The water was warm. His hands were hotter.

We made love there in the shallow end, half-hidden by steam and shadows and the promise that this time, I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Mrs. Rogue Thorne.

Forever.