Reborn To Ruin My Cheating Biker Husband

Kamilah POV:

Grady swung his long leg over the high frame of his blacked-out Harley, his heavy tactical boots hitting the grease-stained concrete with a solid thud.

He wore the full-grain leather Cut of the Iron Crown MC, the "PRESIDENT" patch stitched in silver thread across his left breast.

The collar of his cut showed the edge of the grim reaper skull tattoo trailing up the side of his neck, radiating the kind of quiet, violent authority that made entire rooms stop breathing.

Dayne's hand slowly eased off the grip of his pistol, his eyes widening in shock before settling into deep respect.

"Reaper," Dayne said, nodding once. "What the hell are you doing in Rodgers territory?"

Grady did not look at Dayne immediately.

His pale green eyes cut through the shadows of the garage, fixing directly on me where I stood by the workbench.

He walked past Dayne's wheelchair, his massive frame blocking the garage lights and casting a broad shadow over me.

My breath caught slightly in my throat.

The memory of him bleeding out on the Black Ridge Pass in my previous life flashed through my mind, sending a sharp jolt through my chest.

His arrival today was not an accident, but rather something I had arranged.

From the moment I regained consciousness, I immediately began implementing my revenge plan, and then swiftly arranged all the necessary details.

I’d sent a coded text to my shop crew the moment I’d cleared the clubhouse gates, and I could only hope they’d moved as fast as I had.

"Word on the interstate is Turner is throwing a celebration tonight," Grady said, his voice low, gravelly, and laced with dark amusement.

He stopped less than an arm's length away.

The scent of rich leather, Virginia tobacco, and cold night air rolled off him, mixed with the faint, sharp scent of his peppermint aftershave.

He raised a rough, calloused hand and brushed his thumb lightly across my cheekbone, catching a streak of black grease near my ear.

The heat of his skin against mine sent a sudden, electric tingle racing down my spine.

"You plan on crashing a charter party looking like this, Valkyrie?" Grady murmured, his lips curving into a dangerous half-smile.

I tilted my head back, refusing to break eye contact, fighting down the sudden flutter in my pulse. "It is more than enough for what I need to do to them."

Grady let out a low chuckle, his thumb lingering for a fraction of a second before dropping back to his side, his hand resting naturally on the grip of the Glock holstered at his kidney.

He turned his attention toward Dayne.

"Arthur Rodgers pulled me out of a ditch when I was a prospect with nothing to my name," Grady said, his voice dropping into pure steel. "The Rodgers family will never stand alone while the Iron Crown draws breath. Tonight, I back her play."

Dayne stared at him, the tension in his broad shoulders finally melting away.

I grabbed the waterproof tactical backpack off the bench, shoving the separation agreement and the financial records inside.

Tires screeched outside the bay doors as two beat-up pickup trucks pulled up behind Grady's formation.

Tessa and Roxy, my two most loyal mechanics, jumped out of the cabs, running into the garage with heavy file cases.

Tessa froze when she saw the dozen heavily armed Iron Crown riders standing around the perimeter, while Roxy gripped an oversized pipe wrench defensively.

"They are with us," I called out, waving them forward. "Did you get the shop safe ledgers and the title transfers?"

Roxy swallowed hard, nodding rapidly. "Everything from the safe. The inventory lists, the bank routing numbers, every single signed part request from Kenton."

"Pack it in," I said, pointing to the bag.

I turned back to Grady, my jaw set. "We are ready."

Grady's eyes darkened with approval.

He turned toward the bay door, raised two fingers in the air, and gave a sharp, downward slash.

"Mount up!" Grady barked.

Behind him, twelve patched Iron Crown enforcers dropped onto their bikes in absolute unison, their heavy boots hitting footpegs as one.

I walked over to my Harley, strapped the tactical pack across my chest, and pulled my helmet over my head.

Through the tinted visor, I saw Grady sitting astride his custom cruiser, watching me.

He had not put his helmet back on. The cool night wind tousled his dark hair as he gestured toward the open road, giving me the lead.

I twisted the throttle, letting the engine scream, and launched out of the garage onto the empty blacktop.

Grady dropped in immediately to my left, his front wheel locked with mine, while twelve Iron Crown bikes formed a tight, thundering wedge behind us.

The roar of fourteen heavy engines shook the desert highway, vibrating deep inside my bones.

Twenty minutes later, the garish red-and-yellow neon sign of the Turner Clubhouse appeared on the horizon.

Bass from the sound system rattled through the metal siding of the compound.

I did not touch the front brake.

The two Turner prospects guarding the double wooden entrance dropped their beer bottles in terror as our headlights washed over them.

They scrambled out of the way just as I stood on the footpegs, locked my arms, and drove the heavy front tire of my Harley straight into the double oak doors.

The wood shattered with an explosive crash, sending splinters flying into the crowded party hall.