All Chapters of The Biker's Rules: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

POV - MelaenaIt’s moments like these that make me miss my mom the most. Not in a dramatic, fall-to-my-knees way — just this quiet ache. The kind that makes you want another woman in the room. Someone older. Someone who’s survived things and can hand out advice like it’s candy. Someone who isn’t Kiara.But Mom’s been gone for what feels like forever.Eight years, seven months, and twenty-one days, my brain supplies automatically — unhelpful, precise, like it’s proud of itself.Time passes. Life moves on. People say it gets easier.They’re wrong.Because no matter how many years stack up, the night we found her murdered in our house is welded into me. Permanently. Untouchable.What I don’t tell anyone — not even Kiara — is that I remember the smell first. Her spaghetti bolognese. The real one. The kind that simmers forever and somehow tastes like safety. I memorized her recipe … written in her cookbook with her own handwriting.Whenever I’m falling apart, I make it for myself. One bowl

Date = 5 SeptemberPlace = San Francisco (Uncle John’s house)POV – MelaenaJudge? What I don’t know?Is he seriously pleading innocence?How exactly do weekly tabloid spreads full of women draped over him translate into misunderstood virtue?I stare into his confrontational emerald eyes, my brain firing off theories like popcorn.Did he just ask me not to judge his affairs? Do I look like the judgy type?“I’m not accusing you,” I say sweetly — which is always a lie right before the knife goes in — “but your shenanigans with the female species do make for a very convincing closing argument. You could claim I don’t have all the facts … and sure, that’s technically true … but the evidence of your so-called flings is available to literally anyone with Wi-Fi.”I snort. Loudly.“Your face is plastered all over the internet at least once a week — every time with a different BRUNETTE smiling at your side.”And there it is.The pattern.Dark hair. Always. Very much his type.And I’m definitely

Date = 5 SeptemberPlace = San Francisco (Uncle John’s house)POV - DamionI glare at the message on her phone.Is this a joke?I rake my brain for anyone — except me — whose name starts with a D. Anyone who would be stupid enough to pull this kind of shit.Nothing.Fuck.And I’m about to leave for consecutive races. Days. Weeks. If she has a stalker — if someone thinks they can circle her like a vulture while I’m gone — I need to shut that down.Permanently.Knock. Knock.Someone’s at the door.I don’t move. Don’t even breathe.Mel is sprawled on my chest, warm and soft, breathing evenly, making the tiniest snoring sound — sweet and faint and completely unfair. Like a kitten who accidentally conquered your heart and now owns your soul.KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.Persistent. Annoying. Definitely a pain in the ass.The handle jiggles.I grit my teeth and carefully shift Mel to the side, easing out from under her like she’s made of glass. She makes a small noise, frowns, then settles again. My

Date = 31 October More than a month has gone. Time flies.Place = San Francisco (paintball place) What do you expect from a load of adrenaline and testosterone-filled males?POV – MelaenaAnother birthday party. Damion’s birthday.31 October.Of course, it’s Halloween.I eye my reflection while braiding my hair, already bracing myself. In this group, birthdays are never just birthdays. They’re more like survival challenges with cake.Last time — Logan’s party — all my brothers got taken out by STROH rum like dominoes. At least no one ended up in hospital. Which, in this family, counts as a win.My phone vibrates on the dresser.D Stalker: Mayday! Mayday! A little actor is dying! 💀I freeze mid-braid.I changed his caller ID weeks ago — because if I’m going to be harassed, I at least want advance warning. I stare at the screen, jaw tight, then flip the phone face down like that might smother the words.I am not letting one deranged coward hijack my life.He’s been at it since Logan’s

Date = 31 October The date of my birth.Place = San Francisco (Reaper venue) Of course our team has a great venue.POV - DamionI think I fucked up again.Or rather … I’m pretty sure I fucked up again.It’s amazing, really. I can fling myself around a track at over 220 miles an hour on two wheels, flirting with death as if it owes me money — but ask me to string together five honest words for the one person who matters? And suddenly I’m a mute with commitment issues.“We’re very proud of you, son,” Dad says, all calm pride and solid shoulders. Mom just smiles, the soft kind that carries around twenty-one years of sacrifices I don’t deserve.“Thanks. I love you guys to bits.”“Right back at you, champ.” Dad winks and steers Mom toward their table, where Uncle John, Dean, and a handful of high-and-mighties already sit — men who, in one way or another, form part of our team.I shrug back the cloak of my Grim Reaper costume. The fabric drags across my bruised spine, feeling like razor bl