Contracted Wife to the MC President

Chapter 10

Harper POV

The Charger's tires crunched over crushed glass and rusted metal as Reaper steered us off the main road into a sprawling vehicle boneyard. Mountains of dead cars stacked three stories high formed a maze of rust and shadow.

He navigated it like he'd done it a hundred times, pulling into a clearing dead center of the yard.

A black armored SUV sat idling in the dirt. Four men in leather cuts stood around it, rifles slung across their chests. They raised those rifles the second they saw the Charger, then lowered them once Reaper killed the headlights.

"Stay close," he said, grabbing the AR-15 from the back seat.

I stepped out into the cold. Boots hitting dirt with a heavy thud. I knew exactly how I looked, mud and blood on white silk, a t-shirt swallowing my frame, a jacket turned inside out over my shoulders. Didn't matter. I kept my spine straight and walked around the hood to stand next to him.

A tall, wiry biker with a shaved head and ink crawling up his throat stepped forward. Gage. The Road Captain.

Relief crossed his face when he saw Reaper. Then his eyes landed on me and that relief turned to venom.

"Boss." Rough voice. "Glad you made it. Why the hell is Evans's kid still breathing? Her father just slaughtered our brothers."

He stepped toward me, hand dropping to his hip. "She's a liability. Put a bullet in her, dump her in the scrap."

Reaper didn't raise his voice. Didn't even reach for his gun. He just moved, smooth and fast, putting himself between Gage and me. The threat coming off him hit the clearing like a pressure wave.

"Hand off the weapon, Gage." Quiet. Dead calm. Worse than shouting would've been. "Before I take your hand off your arm."

Gage froze.

"This is Mrs. Cross." Reaper's eyes didn't leave his Road Captain's face. "My wife. She carries my name and my protection. Disrespect her again, and you won't live long enough to regret it. We clear?"

Nobody in that yard breathed.

Gage's hand fell away. He looked at the ground. "Clear, boss. Apologies, ma'am."

"Open the stash," Reaper said, already turning toward the SUV.

Gage scrambled to pop the trunk. A mobile armory, crates of ammo, vests, a row of guns lined up neat inside.

Reaper walked over, ignoring the pull at his ribs, grabbed a fresh mag for the Glock, slammed it home, slung a spare pouch over his shoulder.

I stepped up beside him. Set the empty 9mm on the bumper and reached into the crate myself, pulled out a compact Sig Sauer.

I felt all four bikers watching, waiting for the rich girl to fumble it.

I didn't. My father ran a shadow syndicate behind his politics, and I'd been on a private range since I was twelve.

I dropped the mag, checked the rounds, slammed it back in, racked the slide, thumbed the safety on. Muscle memory. I tucked it into my waistband, let the shirt cover the grip.

Gage was staring at me with his mouth open when I looked up.

Reaper just watched, something dark and proud pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"Gage, you and the boys hold a two-block perimeter." His eyes stayed on me. "Harper and I are going into the Diamond District."

The switch from rusted scrap yard to the Diamond District felt like stepping into a different city entirely.

He parked the Charger halfway down a street lined with oak trees and storefronts that probably had a minimum spend just to walk through the door. People in tailored suits and women with Birkin bags moved past, completely unaware of the war a few miles behind us.

I looked at him. A bruised, bleeding warlord sitting in a world built on polished glass and old money. He pulled his cut tight over the Glock and cut the engine.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

We got out and walked the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder. People parted around us without meaning to, one look at his bruised jaw and flat eyes was enough to send them across the street.

We stopped outside Vance Jewelers.

No display windows, no signage. Just a heavy tinted glass door and a brass intercom set into marble.

"Camera's above the door," Reaper said, staying just out of frame.

I stepped in front of it and pressed the button.

Static, then a voice. "Vance Jewelers is by appointment only."

"Tell Elias it's Harper Evans." Crisp, cold, every bit the senator's daughter. "And tell him if this door isn't open in five seconds, I'll have my father audit his offshore accounts."

The static cut. Three seconds later the mag-lock clacked open.

I pushed through into a showroom carpeted in cream, smelling like cologne and polished wood, display cases full of diamonds worth more than most people's houses.

Elias Vance stood behind the counter in a gray three-piece suit. The color left his face the moment he saw me.

"Harper?" His hands shook against the glass case. "My god. You're supposed to be dead. Your father said the bikers executed you in the raid."

"My father lies, Elias." I stepped further in.

Before he could answer, the light from the door disappeared behind me.

Reaper filled the doorway, all violence and dirt and blood in a room built for fragile things. The door clicked shut, sealing us in.

Vance made a small, choked sound.

Reaper didn't smile. Just rested his hand on the grip of his Glock, easy, unhurried.

"Hello, Elias," he said, voice rolling off all that expensive glass. "Let's look at the books."