Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Biker's Bride Wants Revenge: Kabanata 31 - Kabanata 40

RHEA“You—you wouldn’t dare!” Vona shrieks, the reality of her situation finally crashing down on her. She stumbles back a few steps. The anger on my face—none of it even meant for her—seems to convince her there’s no bluff to call. She gasps. “I’m not someone you want to mess with! D–Do you really think Mr. Voss would believe you over me?”I nod, thoughtful. “You’re right. Even if I am Creative Director, you’re still his personal assistant—the one who’s supposed to be at his side, not in my office harassing me. And I’m guessing Christian isn’t someone you want to upset, is he? Does he even know his assistant is thirsting after his brother?”Her lips part. Her hands start to shake. “Y–You wouldn’t.”I lift a brow and stand, circling the desk toward her. She’s shaking so hard I almost feel bad—but she’s just a convenient outlet for the anger burning in me. Better her than me doing something I can’t take back.“So that’s a no,” I say quietly. “The boss’s brother is strictly off-limits,

RHEA“Turn around, Dot.”I don’t want to look.I really don’t.But my feet slow anyway, traitors to my good sense.He’s across the street, leaning against his motorcycle with the kind of lazy confidence that should be illegal. One boot hooked on the curb, black tee stretched tight over muscle, every line of his body on shameless display. The tattoos on his arms peek out like they know exactly what they’re doing.His long hair is loose, dark and wild around his shoulders.No rings this time.Just a thick chain around his neck—simple, heavy, unapologetically dangerous.And of course he’s already looking at me.Not casually. Not politely. Like he’s been waiting.My chest twists in that stupid, traitorous way it always does with him. The kind that forgets betrayal and remembers heat. The kind that remembers hands, mouths, and the way he says my name like it’s a promise and a threat at the same time.“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter into the phone.“You look tired,” he says quietly. “And ma

DAMIENI release her like she’s something rotten in my hand.“Talk about her like that again,” I tell her softly, “and I’ll carve your tongue out and send it to your mother with a ribbon.”She stumbles back a step, clutching her throat like she can already feel it.“A stripper,” I repeat, slow and deadly. “You don’t get to speak about my wife like that. Ever.”Her lips tremble. “She’s not—”“She’s mine.” My voice drops. “That’s all you need to know. And everything you should be afraid of.”I step closer—not to touch her, never that—but to make sure she understands how small she is in front of me.“You think you matter in this?” I murmur. “You think your last name, your parents, this little marriage fantasy gives you power over me?”A humorless smile curves my mouth.“You don’t even have power over yourself.”She swallows. “Our families agreed—”“Our families don’t own me,” I snap. “And they definitely don’t get to decide what I care about. And trust me, Wendy. It’s not you.”I lean in

RHEA“See? Your body already knows the answer.”Everything about him screams sin, danger, and that lazy, nonchalant confidence that makes the world feel smaller when he’s around. Right now… if he could swallow me whole, I know he would.I swallow dryly, lust fogging my thoughts so badly it takes every ounce of control to plant my hands on his shoulders and push him just enough to create some space. My breaths come uneven, shaky. What is it about him that has me tossing common sense out the window?“It doesn’t,” I lie. I can tell he knows from the tilt of his head, the faint arch of his brow. Damn him. “And we really can’t, Damien. Just… take me home.”“But I came all this way because I missed you, Dot. And you’re so willing to get rid of me?” He presses a hand to his chest. “You break my heart.”“I could break something else if a single car drives past.” I snap, half-laughing, half-serious.He snorts, amused, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You shouldn’t threaten me with a good time

RHEA Against my better judgment, I unlock the door to my apartment. I pause long enough to take a few steadying breaths, run through the calming techniques I barely believe in, then step aside to let Damien in. “This is me.” His presence fills the space instantly. The apartment somehow looks smaller with him inside it, narrower, tighter. I rub at my wrist, irritation creeping up my spine, and force my thoughts elsewhere. Big men in leather jackets. A cramped living room. Headless Nothing good comes from reminiscing, Rhea. Damien’s gaze flicks to my wrist. Just once. Then he’s in front of me, fingers closing gently around my hand before I can react. He stills the frantic scratching and wraps my wrist in both of his, warm and solid. He doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t ask. He just holds it there while his eyes drift around the room. The second-hand television. The hand-me-down sewing machine tucked into the corner. Everything else worn, reused, stretched a little further th