The Ruthless Biker's Ex-Convict Bride

Wren’s Point of View The moment I stepped out of the prison gates, I knew my life would never be the same, like when I had stepped through them three years ago. I remember the night before my sentence; he had called me, promising he’d come see me, telling me to hang in there, ‘this isn't over.’ Three f*****g years, he never once visited me. Never called or checked on me. The only thing I ever got was the divorce papers, signed by him and delivered by some f*****g messenger just days after I was sentenced to jail. I had no one at that moment, but Mama Ro. Rosalind Kessler was the widow, the ol' lady of the president of the club, and the woman who ran this town. Ro gave me a job when nobody else would, fought the club's older members on my behalf, and treated me like family when I had none of my own. So, if anyone had my back until now, it was her. She was like the mother I never had. The day I got out of jail, I remembered every face and how they treated me. Some had spit in my face while people called me names, but I kept my head down. I tried to look for a job, but nothing ever came up. No one would ever hire someone like me, an ex-con who was labeled as a murderer. I took the only thing anyone would give me, a night-shift cleaning job at a run-down motel. The supervisor recognized me too, and for some f*****g reason, he hired me. But things started getting awkward. He started finding reasons to get close: a hand that would linger on my shoulder, an offer to grab a drink that wasn’t really a question. I had zero leverage here. I kept my head down and deflected whenever he offered to grab a drink with me. But today has been brutal. I cleaned more than I should’ve. After I said no to his advances last night, tonight he made me work like some f*****g slave, but I didn’t complain. Criminals don’t complain. I walk home through heavy snow, and when I spot a dark streak of blood under the drifts on the back trail, I freeze, looking around me because this can’t mean anything good. I see the body that caused the blood trail. It has fallen face down, and it looks like a man. I look away and keep walking. This is none of my business. I should stay the f**k away from helping people anymore, but I make it maybe twenty steps before something inside me turns me right back around. My heart won’t stop racing, and guilt comes over me. I can help him. I can get him out of there. I rush to him, dropping my bag to the side. “Great, Wren. Just f*****g perfect,” I mumble to myself. I shouldn’t do this. It’s a bad idea, but I need to get him out. He could die of severe hypothermia if he is not already dead. I start to dig him out with my bare hands. Warming my hand, I reach for his pulse. It’s there but weak. I wrap my arms under his armpits, then pull him out. He’s f*****g heavy, badly hurt, and covered in wounds. I can’t clearly see his face because it’s covered in blood. I quickly check his body, just to make sure he is not part of a club, but there are old scars and restraint marks on both wrists, and no club markings anywhere on him. Whoever he is, he's completely on his own out here, same as me. Even half-dead in the snow, there's no missing how dangerously good-looking he is. Something tells me I should leave him and forget about him, but something pulls me to him. I can’t leave him alone. He might be someone’s son, husband, or father. I never learn, but what the f**k? I have nothing else to lose. I haul him back to my tiny room, with him over my shoulders. With my height, his legs are on the ground the entire way, but I drag him. When we get to my tiny room, I place him on the bed, my heart pounding hard. I turn on the light, pulling off my clothes and leaving me only in my small shirt. I start to work with what I have: kitchen supplies, a small first-aid kit, and hands that don't do fine work anymore but still remember how. I clean up his face and remove all the wet, heavy clothes, throwing them aside. He doesn’t have many cuts, so I stitch what I can and lay him out on the bed. He doesn't wake up while I work on him. Once I make sure he is warm enough, I go through his pants. He has no wallet, no phone, nothing worth anything on him. Shit. This is bad. I’ve barely finished cleaning up the mess when my supervisor, Langford, bangs on the door. I realize I forgot to lock the door too late, when he pushes his way inside. My heart jumps, and my hands get clammy. He is drunk, and his words are slurred. “You f*****g thief,” he accuses, as I look around. I should have locked the f*****g door. He’s been waiting for a reason to do this. Tonight, he decides he doesn't even need one. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” I say, backing away from him. I need to find something to do about this. He backs me into the tight corner between the bed and the wall. “You stole the money in my f*****g office,” he accuses me as I back into a corner. Three years in prison taught me exactly how to survive men who think they're owed something. I have a blade hidden on me, and I know how to use it. I also know, with total clarity, what it takes to make a body disappear for good. “But I’m willing to let it go,” he slurs, swaying back and forth. “I can forgive you. All I need is you... Let me have you once, and I will forget you stole from me,” he growls, his breath hitting my nostrils. I let him think I've given up, pretending to shake and be scared of him. I let him get closer. I wait for the moment his weight shifts wrong, but I don’t get the chance to use it. There's a sickening crack, and in one fluid motion, his neck snaps. He drops to the floor like dead weight. Standing right behind him is the stranger. The man I picked up.