The Biker's Favorite Sinner

Lila’s POVTHE DIAMOND on my finger caught the lamplight, throwing fractured rainbows across the ivory pages of the wedding magazine I’d been thumbing through.My life was supposed to be perfect.At twenty-one, I was the lucky girl who had clawed her way out of the shadows of leather and blood, stepping into a world of city lights and polished glass. I had Adrian Cross, the man every woman at the club still whispered about. Handsome. Wealthy. Promising me forever with a smile that looked good in every photograph.And yet, as I flipped to a spread of gowns I could never imagine myself walking in without tripping, I sighed. My clumsy fingers snagged the corner of the glossy page and ripped it. Of course. Lila Montgomery, heiress who could never walk in heels without wobbling, who spilled wine at fancy dinners, who blushed when she should’ve kept her mouth shut.Still, Adrian told me he loved me anyway. Loved me for being a little different.So why did my stomach always twist when he said

Lila’s POVAFTER THE burial, tradition demanded we hold vigil at the house, where family and the inner circle gathered. No press, no outsiders, only blood and those bound by loyalty.And it was suffocating.Everywhere I turned, shadows clung to the walls, thick with smoke and grief. The room buzzed with low voices, whiskey glasses clinking, leather jackets shifting like restless wolves in mourning. My heels clicked against the hardwood floor, far too loud, like I didn’t belong in a place carved from blood and grit.Eyes followed me, some pitying, some openly sneering. I lifted my chin higher, fingers brushing the cool diamond on my hand, as though that sparkle could shield me. Adrian’s voice echoed in my head, sharp as glass: Always hold your head high, Lila. Don’t let them see weakness.But weakness was all I felt.I was holding a paper-thin version of myself together when the perfume hit me, heady, expensive, laced with poison.“Lila Montgomery,” Vivienne purred, her voice slicing th

Lila’s POVI COULD not sleep.The bed in the east wing was too large, the mattress too firm, the silence too aware of me. Every time I closed my eyes, the house seemed to breathe closer, as if it had been waiting all these years for me to come back and finally listen.I slipped out from under the covers, careful not to wake Adrian. He had fallen asleep facing the wall, his back a line of quiet irritation. The house smell had offended him. The lack of cell service had annoyed him even more. He had sighed himself into sleep after informing me, for the third time, that we would only stay a night or two. Just long enough to bury my father. Just long enough to be respectful.I pulled on a sweater and padded into the hallway barefoot.The floorboards creaked in the same places they always had. I knew where to step to avoid them, and that knowledge settled into my bones without effort. My body remembered this house even if my life had pretended not to.The hallway stretched long and dim, lit

Lila’s POV“YOU DO not have to stand up for me.”I said it softly, but the words cut through the study like a blade sliding free of its sheath.Marco Moore paused mid motion, his hand hovering above the leather chair opposite my father’s desk. He looked at me, really looked, with eyes that did not rush to fill silence or soften truth. Calm brown eyes. Observant. Grounded.“I am not standing up for you,” he said gently. “I am doing my job.”Adrian scoffed from behind me. “Your job seems to involve a lot of opinion for a lawyer.”Marco eased into the chair without reacting, movements unhurried. “It involves clarity,” he replied. “Which tends to bother people who prefer fog.”I bit the inside of my cheek.The study felt smaller with all of us in it. The walls were lined with dark wood shelves

Lila’s POVADRIAN STOOD at the head of the dining table and lifted his wine glass like he was opening a board meeting instead of a family dinner.“I thought it would be nice to bring a little structure to the evening,” he said with a practiced smile. “A proper meal. Good wine. Civilized conversation.”Michael shifted beside me. I felt the subtle tension in his shoulders.Around the long table, leather jackets mixed awkwardly with pressed shirts and borrowed jackets. The room smelled of roasted chicken, garlic, and expensive cologne that did not belong here.I smoothed the napkin across my lap and tried to pretend this felt normal.It did not.Sam cleared his throat. “Food smells good, son.”“Thank you,” Adrian replied. “I had it brought in from a restaurant in town. Seemed easier than bothering anyone in the kitch