THE BIKER’S RUNAWAY BRIDE

Chapter 4: Open Gates

Lena Marlowe POV

The cold rain soaked straight through my ruined wedding dress, water clinging to the torn silk skirts. Dirt caked my white satin shoes, turning them dark brown as I stepped away from my dead sports car.

Above the open garage bay, a flickering neon sign hummed softly in the dark storm: Iron Serpents Mechanics.

I wiped a hand across my forehead, pushing wet strands of hair out of my eyes. My teeth chattered, but I held my breath, keeping my chin lifted high. I refused to let myself break down now. Not after running out on three hundred people, not after escaping my parents, and certainly not when I was this close to keeping Daniel's truth alive.

A man walked out from under a lifted pickup truck inside the bay, wiping dark oil off his hands with a dirty red rag. He wore a dark leather vest covered in club patches, black jeans, and work boots. He stopped at the edge of the concrete driveway, staring down at me.

"You lost, lady?" he asked. His voice was low, deep, and completely unimpressed. "Because the church is twenty miles back down the highway, and you look like you got lost on the way to your own wedding party."

I took three steady steps forward, stopping just outside the rain shelter of the garage roof.

"I'm not lost," I said clearly, keeping my voice firm despite the shivers running down my spine. "My car engine died fifty yards down your road. Smoke poured out from the hood, and the power shut down completely."

The man tossed his red rag onto a wooden workbench nearby. He stepped closer, his dark eyes taking in my pale face, the ripped train of my designer dress, and the dirt covering my arms. He didn't look shocked or impressed by the expensive silk. His expression remained totally calm, observant, and cold.

"You're driving a hundred-thousand-dollar luxury car in the middle of a mountain storm, wearing a ruined wedding dress covered in mud," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "And you want me to believe your only problem is a bad engine?"

"I don't care what you believe," I replied, standing my ground. "I need to buy a working car battery, or I need to hire a ride into Blackridge immediately. I have money. Name your price."

He let out a short, dry laugh, walking over to an open tool chest. "Money doesn't fix a blown engine block, lady. I heard your car sputtering from inside the shop. You threw a rod. That engine is completely done."

My chest tightened. "Then sell me another vehicle. Anything that runs. A truck, a motorcycle, I don't care. Just name a figure."

Ryder turned around, his eyes locking onto mine with intense focus. "I'm Ryder Vale. I run this shop. And I don't sell vehicles to runaway brides who have trouble written all over their faces."

"I am not a trouble maker!" I shouted over the sound of the rain pounding against the roof above us. "I am a paying customer asking for simple help!"

"Look at you," Ryder said softly, taking two slow steps toward me until he stood right at the edge of the garage light. "Your hands are shaking, your lip is bleeding, and you're clutching your dress pocket like someone is about to shoot you for what's inside it. You're not just running from a wedding, sweetheart. You're running for your life."

I swallowed hard, my fingers instinctively tightening over the folded autopsy report hidden under my dress. "That is none of your business."

"It becomes my business the moment you bring your problems onto my property," Ryder said, his tone turning sharp and ruthless. "Around here, we don't host rich country club drama. If you're running from dangerous people, you keep moving."

"I have nowhere else to go!" I cried out, my voice cracking as the sheer weight of my situation hit me. "My brother was murdered, okay? My family tried to force me into a marriage with the man who helped cover it up! I ran because it was my only chance to survive! Please... just help me get to town."

Ryder stood completely still. The cold, indifferent look on his face shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing as he evaluated my words.

"Your family?" he asked quietly.

"The Marlowes," I said, wiping a tear from my cheek before it could mix with the rain. "My father is Richard Marlowe."

Ryder clicked his tongue, a bitter expression touching his lips. "Marlowe. The real estate corporation out of the capital. High-society sharks."

"Yes," I whispered. "So please... sell me a ride."

Ryder looked at me for a long, moment. He reached into his leather vest pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and held them up.

"There's an old utility truck parked behind the bay," Ryder said. "The fuel tank is half full. It'll get you to the city limits, but—"

Before Ryder could finish his sentence, three pairs of blindingly bright headlights cut through the dark rain outside.

Engine roars filled the valley as three black SUVs pulled sharply off the dirt trail, slamming their brakes and positioning their vehicles in a semi-circle across the garage driveway, completely blocking the exit.