The Biker's Bride Wants Revenge

RHEA

I'm still trying to accept that this is actually happening when one of the board members - a balding man with sweat shining at his temples - clears his throat again. "Mr. Da-"

"Oh, relax," he cuts in, flicking a lazy hand. His other hand keeps turning the note over between his fingers. "My brother won't hear a word from me."

A pause.

"But that doesn't mean this mess won't eventually crawl its way back to him. Employee evaluations are what - two weeks away?"

Oh.

So, that's his play.

The room locks up. Not a single spine stays straight.

He opens the note again, eyes skimming it with a softness that makes my jaw tighten. The contrast is jarring. Someone beside me grips the edge of the table hard enough that it creaks.

"This is usually when people start making better choices," he says lightly, lifting his stare to sweep the room. Slow. Unrushed. Dangerous. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Nobody dares answer.

I click my tongue silently. Really? Not one of them has the spine to knock that smugness down even an inch?

I would pay good money to watch someone try.

My hands start to shake. I hate that they do. I curl my fingers into my palm until my nails bite, until the sting gives the anger somewhere to go.

Don't glare. Don't react. That's what he wants.

The worst part is... he didn't force me to have sex with him. And if I was given the choice, I'd do it again.

If I'm honest-painfully honest-he'd done the opposite. He'd controlled everything without ever crossing that line.  Every time I'd tried to say Christian's name last night, he'd stop me. Mouth. Teeth. Bites sharp enough to shut me up without a single word.

He'd just, conveniently, taken me for a fool and forgot to mention he was not his brother.

My jaw tightens.

I don't notice my left eye twitching until it's already too late. At some point, I'd found myself a seat far away enough to dwell in my anger, while not interrupting them.

Damien tilts his head toward the balding guy. "Maxwell, was it? One more thing."

"Y-Yes, sir. Anything."

"I'm looking for my kitten," he says.

I blink.

Of all the unhinged things-

"She ran away this morning."

He leans back like the room belongs to him-like it always has-and lets his eyes drag over me in a way that sends heat skittering down my spine.

"She's about this tall." His hand lifts, stopping exactly at my height. Of course it does. "Brown fur. Hazel eyes. Very pretty little thing." His mouth curves. "Sharp mouth. Bad attitude. Thinks she's smarter than everyone in the room."

My nails dig harder into my palm.

"She also has this irritating habit of mistaking me for my brother," he adds, voice light and conversational, like he's discussing the weather. "And if you call her Dot just right... she squeals."

I hate him.

I hate him so much my pulse goes feral.

I hate that my body answers anyway-pulse spiking, thighs pressing together under the table, heat blooming low and treacherous.

"Any of you seen her?"

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

So I snap it in half.

"I might have."

Every head turns to him. But I only feel him.

His attention slams into me like a physical force-hot, heavy, unmistakably predatory. When our eyes lock, something flashes in his: sharp interest, dark satisfaction, the glint of a predator who just heard his prey speak up.

I don't look away.

"I might have," I repeat, calm and clear.

He tilts his head, slow, savoring. Like he's tasting the sound of my voice and finding it delicious.

"And?" he murmurs. Just one word, low and rough, sliding straight down my spine.

I uncross and recross my legs. "She didn't look lost," I say. "She looked... disappointed."

A beat.

His gaze drifts-lazy, possessive-over my mouth, my throat, the curve of my jaw. Subtle enough that no one else notices. But I feel every inch of it like fingertips.

"Disappointed," he repeats, faintly amused.

"Yes." I lift my chin. "She realized she'd picked the wrong brother."

That does it.

The corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. Something darker. Hungrier.

"Did she say where she was headed?" he asks, voice smooth, edged with steel.

"No," I answer. "But she didn't strike me as someone who enjoys being chased."

His eyes narrow, just a fraction. The air tightens between us, taut as a wire.

"Funny," he says quietly. "I don't mind a chase."

My breath catches before I can stop it.

Then he exhales, slow and controlled, like he's reining himself in, then stands in one fluid motion, reaches for my file, and tears out the top sheet-the one with my passport photo staring back at me.

He folds it once, twice, and slips it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Right over his heart. Like it belongs there.

The rest of the file he lets drop onto the table with a soft thud.

Heat floods my stomach-anger and something worse.

As he passes my chair-close enough that his sleeve brushes my arm, close enough that I catch leather, smoke, and the faint warmth of his skin-his voice drops to a murmur meant only for me.

"Found her."

It's barely a breath. And yet.

My lungs forget how to work for a second.

Then he's gone, door clicking shut behind him.

The room collapses in on itself-chairs shifting, someone coughing, everyone suddenly remembering how to breathe.

Maxwell clears his throat, face flushed, and clearly confused by what just happened. He doesn't bring it up, though. I feel a rush of gratitude at that. "Miss Ashford, we're deeply sorry for the interruption. We clearly misjudged your qualifications.  Please-sit. We'd like to continue the interview properly."

I stand instead.

The woman reaches for my wrist. I step out of reach and give her a polite smile.

"No need," I say. "I've seen everything I came to see."

I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk to the door.

"One last thing," I add, fingers on the handle. "The man who just left?"

Maxwell hesitates. "Be careful not to mistake him for Mr. Christian Voss. That was Damien Voss-the younger twin."

I don't turn around.

"Oh," I say softly. "I know exactly who he is."

I walk out.

Pulse racing.

Blood boiling.

And the clear, infuriating certainty that Damien Voss didn't just provoke me.

He started a war.

And I will absolutely return the favour.