Reborn To Ruin My Cheating Biker Husband

Kamilah POV:

Dayne's heavy fist smashed down onto the steel gas tank of the trike, the metal ringing out in the quiet night.

He shoved hard against the frame, trying to force his dead legs to take his weight, but his knees buckled instantly.

He collapsed back into the leather seat of his wheelchair, breathing heavily through clenched teeth.

"They are publicly humiliating you tonight, Kamilah!" Dayne growled, a vein bulging on his temple. "They are making you share your patch with that lying street trash! I am going to Church, and I am demanding a blood trial from the elders!"

I looked down at his left knee, where the sudden strain had caused fresh blood to seep through his bandage.

A sharp pang of grief hit my chest, but I stepped forward and planted both hands firmly on his shoulders.

"A blood trial?" I asked, forcing him to look directly into my eyes. "You think Erastus Luna and the Church give a damn about justice? Kenton set a trap for you. You ride in there alone on three wheels, and his Enforcers will gun you down in the parking lot and call it self-defense."

Dayne froze, the wild fire in his eyes flickering with confusion.

He had never heard me speak like this. For three years, he had watched me swallow my tongue and play the dutiful, quiet wife to keep the peace.

I let go of his shoulders, walked over to the wooden workbench in the center of the garage, and grabbed a shop rag to wipe the dust from my hands.

I reached inside the inner zip pocket of my riding jacket and pulled out a thick stack of folded financial printouts.

I walked back and slapped the papers directly onto Dayne's lap.

"Look at them," I commanded quietly. "Look at what your beloved brother-in-law has been doing with our family's blood money."

Dayne picked up the papers with trembling, grease-stained fingers.

Under the harsh glare of the garage fluorescent tube, his eyes scanned the ledger lines.

His jaw tightened until the muscles locked, his knuckles turning chalk-white against the paper.

"This... this is impossible," Dayne rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "The quarterly supply budget for our two hundred Harleys... the title deeds to our secondary machine shop... transferred to a private holding firm under the name Schwartz?"

"Tommy Schwartz," I corrected, leaning my hip against the workbench with my arms crossed over my chest. "Britt's brother. The one who owes over a million dollars to the illegal chop shops in the south. Kenton didn't bring her in for border protection. He brought her in to bleed our trust fund dry."

Dayne crushed the papers into a tight ball inside his fist, a murderous glare returning to his face.

"I will take what is left of our old crew," he snarled, reaching down for the leather holster strapped to his chair. "I will burn the Turner clubhouse to the ground tonight."

"With what?" I asked, my voice flat and unyielding as I pointed at his legs. "You can't even stomp a rear brake pedal, Dayne. And half the crew took Kenton's payroll the minute our father died."

The brutal truth hit him like a physical blow.

Dayne squeezed his eyes shut, his broad chest heaving as he dropped his head into his hands.

I knelt down in front of his wheelchair, taking his cold, calloused hands into mine.

"I did not come here to stop you from getting revenge, Dayne," I said softly, looking up into his worn face. "I came here to show you how we crush them until there is nothing left to bury."

Dayne opened his eyes, staring at me as if looking at a stranger wearing his sister's face.

"What are you planning to do?" he asked.

I stood up, every trace of softness vanishing from my expression.

"I am going back to that party," I said. "And I am going to rip their lies apart in front of every patched member in San Pedro."

I walked back to the workbench, reached into the hidden compartment behind the tool rack, and pulled out an asset separation contract.

I slammed it down onto the table.

"I am taking back every single bolt and title that belongs to the Rodgers family," I said. "And then, I am severing that marriage contract for good."

Dayne looked at the legal documents on the table, silence stretching between us for several seconds.

Finally, he exhaled a long, ragged breath and nodded.

"Kenton has six full-patch Enforcers in that room," Dayne warned, his voice steadying. "You can't walk into that snake pit alone."

A cold smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. "Who said I was going alone?"

Before Dayne could ask, a low, thundering rumble rolled in from the dark highway outside.

The sound was distant at first, but within seconds, the vibration grew so intense that the corrugated metal roof of the garage began to rattle.

Dayne's hand immediately dropped to the grip of his .45 pistol. "Is that Turner's men?"

I turned toward the wide-open bay doors, watching the dark horizon. "No. That is our real ally."

The roar abruptly cut out just outside the apron, replaced by the crackle of cooling exhaust pipes.

Brilliant, piercing halogen beams cut through the gloom of the garage, blinding us for a split second.

Through the dust and light, a dozen massive figures on heavy black cruisers idled in perfect formation.

On the lead bike—a stripped-down, matte-black custom machine—the rider slowly reached up and removed his helmet.

Grady Fernandez looked through the open door, his icy green eyes locking onto mine with absolute, lethal focus.