Jilted Bride: Marrying The Biker King

Kendal POV:

The gravel dug viciously into my bare soles. I'd kicked off my cheap heels a half-mile back, and now every step felt like dragging skin across broken glass. My breath came out in ragged, cold gasps.

Headlights violently tore through the dark behind me.

Tires screeched on the shoulder. An engine died.

"Kendal! Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

Jayson slammed his car door, stumbling forward, his handsome face warped with humiliating rage. "Do you have any idea what you just did to me back there? In front of the Serpents? In front of my brothers?"

"I know exactly what I did."

He lunged, grabbing for my wrist.

I didn't flinch. I whipped my arm back, wound up, and cracked my open palm across his cheek.

SLAP.

The crack rang out like a gunshot in the empty night. His head jerked violently to the side, a crimson handprint flaring instantly against his skin.

"That's for your dick," I hissed. "Since it clearly lacks a leash."

He froze, clutching his face, eyes wild. "It didn't mean anything! I was drunk, Kendal, please-just let me explain! I love you!"

A bitter laugh tore from my throat. "You don't know what love is, Jayson. Your love is a stray dog pissing on every fire hydrant it passes. You see an open hole and you crawl into it-and you call that love?"

He stepped toward me again, hands out.

I didn't wait. I drove the heel of my foot straight into his knee cap.

Bone cracked against bone. Jayson went down with a guttural grunt, slamming onto both hands and knees in the dirt, clutching his leg like a pathetic dog begging for scraps.

"Don't you ever touch me again," I whispered, leaning down. "The thought of your hands on me makes me want to scrape off my own skin. Go back to Brandi. She looked real hungry for your leftovers."

I turned and walked away into the dark.

Behind me, his high beams projected my shadow long and fractured across the asphalt. He screamed my name. He swore. He begged.

I kept walking until the lights vanished and my lungs burned.

Empty highway. Zero cell service. No money. Nowhere to go. Everything I had planned for the last three years-erased in fifteen minutes.

Then the earth began to shake.

A low, subterranean rumble vibrated through the soles of my feet. Not a car. The heavy, thunderous roar of an iron beast.

A single headlight pierced the darkness ahead.

A massive, blackout Harley-Davidson decelerated, gliding to a halt directly in front of me. The paint was matte black; the chrome gleamed like wet blood in the moonlight.

The man astride the machine was built like a brick fortress. Heavy leather cut. Across the back: a crowned serpent coiled around a dagger. Serpents of Redemption MC. And below it: PRESIDENT.

He pulled off his helmet.

Sharp, aristocratic cheekbones framed by a brutal jawline. Cold, bottomless blue eyes that looked right through skin and bone.

Braxton "Brute" Wood.

The King of the Serpents. The apex predator of the entire county. He had been sitting front row at the rally, watching my little stage show with those unnerving, calculating eyes.

"Need a ride?" His voice was gravel dragged over velvet.

My guard snapped up instantly. "I don't get on bikes with 1%ers."

A ghost of a smirk touched his mouth. "That Lizard boy didn't deserve a show like that."

There was no mockery in his voice. Just cold, dark appreciation.

"Get on," he ordered. It wasn't an invitation.

"I can walk."

He didn't argue. He swung a long, denim-clad leg over the tank and stepped off the bike. Up close, his size was suffocating. Broad shoulders blocking out the stars, smelling of raw leather, gasoline, and expensive tobacco.

Before I could back away, his hands caught my waist.

A sharp gasp hitched in my throat as he hoisted me off the dirt effortlessly, tucking me against his chest like a ragdoll. His torso was solid iron.

He set me onto the rear leather seat, took his own matte helmet, and shoved it over my head, clicking the strap beneath my jaw with clinical precision.

"Hold on," he commanded, throwing his leg back over.

The monster flared to life. The exhaust rattled my teeth.

Panic overtook pride; my arms whipped around his waist, fingers clutching the front of his cut.

Braxton dropped the clutch. The Harley launched into the night like an artillery shell, tearing the wind to ribbons.

In the tiny chrome mirror, I caught a glimpse of his eyes.

Cold. Victorious.

I had just run from a dog straight into the jaws of a wolf.