Married to the Biker whom Betrayed Me

Rielle’s POV The paper-mâché wings were supposed to be the highlight of the night. I sat in the third row of the warm elementary school auditorium, my phone held up to record every second. On stage, my five-year-old Nyx stood in a wobbly line of kindergarteners dressed as woodland fairies. She wore a crooked silver crown and a smile that could outshine the sun. For five years, that smile had been my entire world. It was the only light I had left after the darkness of my past. "And now, the Fairy Queen will grant the wish!" the teacher prompted from the wings in a loud, enthusiastic whisper. Nyx stepped forward. She opened her mouth to deliver her single line, but instead of words, a wet wheeze tore through the microphone. My phone slipped from my hands. Nyx dropped to her knees, her small hands clawing frantically at her throat. The silver crown tumbled from her dark hair, clattering loudly against the wooden stage. Her mouth was open, but she wasn’t breathing. "Nyx!" I screamed, vaulting over the folding chair in front of me. Parents gasped and scrambled out of the way as I sprinted down the aisle. I didn't wait for the teachers to react. I leaped onto the stage, sliding to my knees beside my daughter. Her lips were already turning a pale shade of blue. Her eyes—those piercing, stormy gray eyes she had inherited from a man I prayed she would never meet—were wide with panic. "Mommy's here, baby, Mommy's here," I choked out, my hands trembling violently as I dug into my purse. I pulled out her specialized inhaler, jammed it past her lips, and pressed the canister. "Breathe, Nyx. Come on, breathe for me." I got nothing. Her tiny chest shuddered, refusing to take in the medicine. A second later, her eyes rolled back, and she went completely limp in my arms. The world narrowed down to the sound of my own heartbeat pounding like a war drum in my ears. I scooped her feather-light body up against my chest and ran. I didn't wait for an ambulance. I didn't answer the screaming teachers. I just ran. The fluorescent lights of the emergency room felt like an interrogation room. I paced the floor, my fingernails biting into my palms so hard they drew blood. Every time the wooden double doors swung open, my breath hitched in my throat. Finally, Dr. Evans, a pediatric pulmonologist, stepped into the waiting area. His face was a mask of grim, professional sympathy. It was the face doctors wore when the news was bad. I knew it all too well from my own shifts as a trauma nurse. "Rielle?" he asked softly. "Is she alive?" The words scraped out of my throat like shattered glass. "She is stable. We had to intubate her to open the airways, but she is breathing." He sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck. "Come with me to my office, please." I followed him, my legs feeling entirely numb. When I sat down in the stiff leather chair across from his desk, the white walls felt like they were rapidly closing in on me. "Her condition has worsened, Rielle," Dr. Evans said, lacing his fingers together on the desk. "The flare-ups are no longer isolated incidents. The scarring in her lungs is spreading faster than our current treatments can manage. The inhalers and steroids are just putting a band-aid on a bullet wound at this point." "What are you saying?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "I am saying that without surgical intervention, Nyx's lungs will completely fail. At this rate... she likely won't survive the year." The air vanished from the room. I gripped the edge of his desk to keep from falling out of the chair. "No. No, you said she had time. You said she would outgrow this." "I was wrong, and I am incredibly sorry," he said gently, his eyes filled with pity. "There is one option. There is an experimental reconstructive surgery being pioneered in Switzerland. It replaces the damaged tissue and halts the progression of the scarring entirely. It has a ninety-five percent success rate for pediatric patients." Hope flared in my chest. "Do it. Whatever it takes, schedule the surgery. I'll take out loans, I'll work triple shifts at the clinic—" "Rielle, the procedure isn't covered by any insurance," he interrupted, cutting off my planning. "The out-of-pocket cost is eight hundred thousand dollars. And they require the funds upfront before they will even place her on the donor schedule." Eight hundred thousand dollars. The number echoed in my skull, mocking me. I was a nurse working under a forged identity, scraping by to keep food on the table in a two-bedroom rental. I didn't have eight thousand dollars to my name, let alone eight hundred thousand. "I'll get it," I lied, the desperation thickening my voice. I stared directly into his eyes, refusing to let him see me break. "Keep her stable. I will get the money." Four hours later, they allowed me to take Nyx home. She was exhausted, pale as a ghost, and clutching her stuffed rabbit to her chest as I carried her up the cracked concrete driveway of our small, suburban house. The night air was freezing, biting through my thin denim jacket. As I fumbled for my keys on the front porch, a sudden, sharp prickle of unease washed over the back of my neck. It was an old instinct. An instinct I hadn't needed in five years. I paused, the metal key resting halfway inside the deadbolt. I didn't turn around immediately. Instead, I used the faint reflection of the front window pane to check the street behind me. The streetlight at the corner, which had been perfectly fine when we left for the school play, was completely shattered. Beneath the blanket of darkness it created, an unmarked black SUV sat idling by the curb, its headlights turned off. Someone was watching the house. Panic instantly pierced through my chest. Had they found me? After five years of hiding, of looking over my shoulder at every shadow, had the Iron Reapers finally tracked me down? I shoved the key forward, unlocked the door, and pushed inside. I slammed the door shut, locked the deadbolt, threw the chain, and engaged the heavy secondary latch I had installed myself. "Mommy?" Nyx mumbled against my shoulder, her heavy eyelids drooping. "Why are we rushing?" "Just getting out of the cold, baby," I whispered, forcing a calm, gentle smile onto my face as I carried her down the hall and into her bedroom. I tucked her beneath her heavy blankets, kissed her warm forehead, and turned on her star-shaped nightlight. "Get some sleep. Mommy loves you so much." "Love you too," she whispered, her breathing shallow but steady as she drifted off to sleep. I backed out of her room, pulling the door almost completely shut. The exact moment the latch clicked, the house plunged into darkness. The refrigerator in the kitchen stopped humming. The glowing digital clock on the microwave went blank. The heater died. Someone had just cut the power from the external breaker box outside. My blood ran entirely cold. But I didn't scream, neither did I panic. The frightened mother vanished, and the former princess of the Iron Reapers Motorcycle Club took over. I moved silently through the dark hallway, my bare feet making no sound on the chilled hardwood floor. I reached the kitchen, sliding my hand under the false bottom of the utensil drawer. My fingers wrapped around the cold, familiar steel grip of a loaded 9mm pistol. I chambered a round, the metallic clack sounding echoing in the silent house. I crept toward the living room, keeping my back pressed flat against the wall. Outside the large bay window, a massive silhouette shifted in the moonlight. Broad shoulders. A leather cut. A shadow I used to know better than my own reflection. A gloved fist knocked twice on the front door. I raised the gun, aiming it squarely at the center of the wooden door, my finger resting lightly on the trigger. My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped bird trying to break free from a cage. Then, a voice drifted through the wood. "Open the door, Rielle." The gun shook in my hands, the air leaving my lungs as if I had been violently punched in the stomach. I hadn't heard that voice in five years. I had prayed to God I would never hear it again as long as I lived. Jax. The club's deadliest enforcer. The man who had broken my heart. The man who had ruined my life. And the father of the little girl sleeping in the next room.