The Biker's Favorite Sinner

Lila’s POV

THE 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 it?

I pushed the thought away, smoothing the torn page like that could mend the quiet unease gnawing inside me. I was happy. I had to be happy. Because what was the alternative? Going back? No. I’d buried that world, the roaring engines, the smell of oil and smoke, the leather jackets that always ended up bloodied.

That wasn’t me anymore.

My phone buzzed across the glass table, jolting me from the whirl of lace and satin. I smiled automatically, expecting Adrian’s name, expecting another gentle reminder about the gala we were supposed to attend tomorrow.

But the screen froze my blood.

Michael.

My brother never called me. Not on birthdays. Not on holidays. Not even when I’d sent cards with timid little notes, he never answered. We hadn’t spoken in three years, not since I ran from the Montgomery empire to build a new life where engines and bullets couldn’t reach me.

Hands trembling, I swiped. “Michael?”

His voice was broken. Gravel and whiskey. But under it was grief. “Lila…”

Something in me braced. My chest tightened until it hurt.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“He’s gone.” Silence, heavy enough to choke. Then the words fell, jagged, final: “Dad’s gone.”

For a moment, the world tilted. The glossy magazine slid to the floor, forgotten. I pressed the phone tighter to my ear as if that could change the sound of his voice. “No. No, Michael, you’re wrong, he’s—he’s too strong, he—”

“They got him.” His inhale shook. “It wasn’t natural. It was murder.”

Murder. The word sliced through me like glass.

Images I hadn’t let myself think about in years crashed back—the roar of my father’s Harley, the way his laugh thundered louder than the pipes, his hand heavy and warm when he lifted me onto the seat. And then the darker flashes: fists, blood on knuckles, whispered threats about enemies who never stopped circling.

I’d escaped. I’d told myself I could live clean, far away. But the world of bikes and blood had a long reach, and now it had taken him.

My throat burned. “When’s the funeral?”

“Tomorrow. Noon.” Michael’s voice cracked, but before I could answer, the line went dead.

I lowered the phone, staring at my reflection in the black screen. Pale. Shaking. A diamond glittering on my hand that suddenly felt like a shackle.

“Who was that?”

Adrian’s voice slid through the silence, smooth as always. He stood in the doorway, jacket slung carelessly over one arm, tie loosened, his dark hair perfectly arranged as though even grief couldn’t muss him.

“My brother.” My voice wavered. “My dad’s dead.”

His brows pinched, not with sorrow, but with irritation. “Now? Before the gala?”

I blinked at him, stunned. “Before the—Adrian, my father was murdered.”

He stepped inside, setting his jacket on the back of a chair, his expression softening into something practiced. “Of course it’s tragic, sweetheart. I didn’t mean it like that. But you don’t really need to go, do you? You left that life behind. Those people.” His lip curled slightly on the last word, like my bloodline was a stain.

Heat flared in my chest—grief twisted into anger. “Those people are my family. I’m going.”

“Lila.” He crouched beside me, taking my hand, the diamond cold against his skin. “Your world is here, with me. You don’t need to bury yourself in old wounds. They’ll drag you back into the mud, and you’ll hate yourself for it.”

I pulled my hand back, clutching it to my chest. “He was my father.”

The silence stretched, and his jaw tightened. Then he kissed my forehead, murmuring, “Fine. Go. But don’t stay longer than you need to. Come back to me.”

It should’ve been comforting. Instead, it felt like a leash.

That night I packed, fumbling with zippers and spilling folded blouses onto the floor. My clumsiness was worse with tears blurring everything, but I forced the suitcase shut. Each thud of my heart was another memory: my father’s booming voice, Michael’s fierce protectiveness, the way the club looked at me like porcelain too fragile to touch.

And one memory I never let myself linger on.

Jacob North.

The enforcer. My brother’s right hand. My father’s shadow.

The man whose eyes had burned holes through me when I was seventeen, though he’d never laid a hand on me. He’d been twenty-four then, scarred, untouchable, terrifying. And I’d been the little princess no one was allowed to breathe near. He’d ignored me. Pretended I wasn’t there. But I’d felt him—every time he walked into a room, every time his voice rumbled orders, every time his stare brushed over me before flicking away.

I shook myself, zipping the suitcase with trembling hands. That was the past. I was engaged now. Safe. Loved. I had no business thinking about Jacob North.

**

THE NEXT morning blurred in a haze of airports and highways until the Montgomery estate rose before me.

It hadn’t changed. Iron gates. Rows of gleaming bikes like soldiers. Leather-clad men with tattoos curling up their necks, their eyes sharp and suspicious as they tracked me.

I stepped out in my city dress and heels, the diamond catching the bleak sunlight. The gravel crunched beneath my shoes. My suitcase tipped, nearly toppling, and I cursed under my breath as I yanked it upright. Clumsy. Always clumsy.

A few of the bikers laughed. The sound stabbed.

I lifted my chin and walked toward the chapel where the service was already underway. Every step was heavier than the last, dragging me deeper into the world I’d fled.

And then I saw him.

Jacob North stood at the back of the room, leaning against the wall like a predator waiting for prey. Broad shoulders filling out his leather jacket, jaw shadowed with stubble, scars cutting brutal lines across his face. His eyes—dark, unreadable—locked onto mine.

Heat shot through me so fast I nearly stumbled again.

Three years had changed him. He was harder now. Rougher. Dangerous in a way that made the air feel thinner in my lungs.

And as his gaze dragged over me, from my red hair to the diamond on my finger, something in his expression tightened. The sight of me offended him.

Or tempted him.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away.

The priest’s voice droned, the hymns rose and fell, but none of it seemed real. All I felt was Jacob’s presence, a magnetic pull, silent but suffocating. He didn’t speak, didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge me beyond that searing look. And yet he was there, every breath I took scraping against the weight of him.

After the service, I found Michael near the front, his dark suit wrinkled from days without care. He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaustion clinging to him as heavily as grief.

“Lila,” he muttered when he saw me, pulling me into a rough embrace. “Thanks for coming home.”

I hugged him back, stiffly at first, then let myself soften. “I had to. He was still my father… But who… who did this?”

Michael’s jaw worked. “It’s them.” His gaze flicked toward the casket, then back to me. “Listen, Marco’s going to arrange the will in the next couple of days. You’ll need to stay until it’s settled.”

My stomach twisted. “How long are we talking?”

“A couple of weeks, maybe. Depends on what Dad left behind. You know how he was, half his affairs were always tied up in knots.”

I exhaled sharply. A couple of weeks. The city, my fiancé, my carefully polished life, they all felt like another planet.

“Of course, Mike,” I said, though my voice sounded thinner than I meant it to. “I’ll stay. Just… let me know what I need to do.”

Michael nodded, his eyes softening for a moment. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

I wanted to believe him. But as I glanced over his shoulder, my gaze caught on Jacob again, still at the back of the chapel, still watching, still silent. The sight of him unraveled me in ways I didn’t dare admit.

I straightened my shoulders, hiding the tremor in my chest. “Together,” I echoed.

But inside, I wasn’t sure who I was more haunted by: my father’s death, or Jacob North’s stare that hadn’t let me go since the moment I walked in.