Page 9 of The Biker and His Bride

RILEY

I ’d just slid a tray of clean shot glasses onto the shelf when the door swung open and every conversation in Fire Skulls choked off mid-word.

She didn’t glide in—she arrived, like a parade float made of blond hair, pink lipstick, and designer denim so tight it should have come with a warning label. Diamond hoops gleamed under the bar lights; stilettos clicked on the scuffed wood like a metronome of self-importance.

And the aura? Pure I-own-the-room royalty.

The crowd parted for her without a single shove. Men stared. Women stared harder. She soaked it up, chin tilted, lips parted in a practiced pout that said admire me.

Who the hell?—

“Brielle,” someone whispered.

My stomach dipped.

She finally stopped—of course—right in front of Rogue.

He’d been leaning against a beam, beer half-gone, trading stories with Diesel. Now he straightened so fast the bottle thunked against the floorboard. Color crept up his neck, staining the high planes of his cheekbones.

Well, well. The man could blush.

“Logan,” she purred, reaching out as if those manicured claws already owned him. “Miss me?”

Rogue froze. The tension in his shoulders could have snapped steel. I wiped my now-sweaty palms on a bar towel and tried to pretend it didn’t stab someplace soft to see her touch him—hand on his chest, nails tracing the ink that peeked from under his tee.

He cleared his throat. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

“No?” She leaned in, cleavage practically weaponized. “I heard you were all grown up—President now. Thought I’d check on my favorite outlaw.”

Favorite. Like she’d ranked him on Yelp.

Jealousy lashed through me—sharp, unexpected. I’d only been here a few weeks. He wasn’t mine. Except maybe my heart hadn’t gotten that memo.

Brielle’s gaze flicked past him and landed on me. One sweep, head to boots, cataloging every sin in my Target jeans.

“And you are?”

I forced a smile. “Bartender. Need a drink?”

“Champagne,” she said, like we stocked it next to the well whiskey.

“House special is Jack Daniels or get out,” I said sweetly.

Her nose wrinkled. “I’ll pass.”

She turned back to Rogue, palm smoothing over his chest like petting a show pony. “We’ve got catching up to do.”

He stepped back; she stepped with him. The knot in my throat pulled tight.

Fine. If the princess wanted attention, she’d get it.

I grabbed two shots of Jack and strode over. “On the house,” I lied, handing one to her.

She eyed the glass like it might bite. “I said no, thanks.”

“It’s rude to refuse a gift,” I chirped.

Brielle’s eyes narrowed. “You know who I am?”

“Pretty sure.” I smiled wider. “But I don’t know why you’re still touching a man who clearly isn’t interested.”

Her laugh was sugar-frosted poison. “Sweetheart, we have history. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She tossed the drink—in my direction. Amber splashed my shirt; the glass shattered at my feet. Gasps rippled through the bar.

I blinked. “That was mature.”

“You’ll learn your place.”

“So will you.” I set my untouched shot on a table, stepped closer, and—very politely—knocked her hand off Rogue’s chest.

Brielle’s face twisted. One second she was all Botoxed composure; the next, she lunged, nails bared.

Instinct kicked in. I grabbed a fistful of platinum extensions and yanked.

She screeched, clawing at my arm, catching skin.

We crashed into a table; cards and cash flew.

Someone shouted bets. Brielle swung—caught my cheek.

I shoved her, grip sliding, nails scraping, hair pulling.

Her press-on nail peeled back with a gruesome snap.

“My nail!” she screamed, voice breaking.

“Should’ve glued it better,” I hissed, yanking again.

She tackled me; we hit the floor and rolled. She slapped. I punched—short jab to the ribs. She howled, kicking wildly. I pinned her wrists, knees braced on either side of her sequined belt. Her perfume choked my lungs.

“Tap out, Barbie,” I growled.

“Get off me!”

Strong arms hooked under my shoulders and lifted me clear. Rogue’s voice, low and thunderous: “Enough.”

Trigger hauled Brielle upright. Her makeup smeared, hair a bird’s nest, one acrylic missing and bleeding at the cuticle. She tried to lunge, but Trigger held firm.

Rogue positioned himself between us, fury simmering behind storm-gray eyes. “Both of you. Stop.”

Brielle panted. “She attacked?—”

“She defended,” Rogue snapped. He turned to me, gaze sweeping for damage. “You okay?”

My pulse hammered; strands of her hair still clung to my fingers. “Fine.”

He nodded, then faced Brielle. “You don’t walk in here and lay hands on my people. Ever.”

Her lip trembled. “I love you, Logan.”

“Loved past tense,” he said, voice like ice. “You should go.”

Silence.

She wrenched free of Trigger, staggered toward the door—high heel catching on a knot in the floor. She swore, limped out, slamming the door so hard glasses rattled.

A beat.

Whistles, laughter, someone clapping. Rogue ignored it all, focus locked on me.

“Come here,” he said.

I stepped close; he caught my chin, tilting my face to inspect the blossoming red mark. His thumb stroked gently over my cheek. “She hurt you?”

“Not much.”

His jaw ticked. “You didn’t have to jump in.”

“I wanted to.”

His eyes softened—just a flicker—but it felt like the sun cutting through storm clouds. Warm. Dangerous. Real.

And right then, jealousy settled into something deeper, scarier.

Because this wasn’t a fling.

This man—this fierce, protective, maddening man—was sinking under my skin, threading himself through scar tissue I thought was impermeable.

I swallowed hard. “I’m not sorry.”

A low rumble of a laugh escaped his throat. “Good,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my lower lip where her ring had grazed it. “Because neither am I.”

He leaned in slightly, voice rough, husky.

“Also…” He glanced toward the door, then back at me, a crooked grin teasing one side of his mouth. “That whole catfight? Sexy as hell.”

I blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. The way you handled her? Wild and fierce. Might’ve been the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

My face flamed. “You’re twisted.”

He smirked. “You’ll get used to it.”

I knew this biker king slipped into all the cracks in my heart. I never loved Caleb—he was a family obligation. But Rogue— I could see myself going all in on loving a man like him.