Her Damaged Biker (Broken Heroes Love Harder #2)

Chapter 1

Evie

My father looks happiest when he’s lying.

Not the harmless kind people tell to smooth over awkward moments. The kind that saves him. The kind that makes his shoulders loosen and his eyes brighten like the universe finally decided he deserves mercy.

That’s the look on his face when I walk into the living room and see a stranger sitting on our couch like he belongs here.

The man is older. Late fifties. Bald. Broad through the shoulders. Expensive watch. Polished shoes. The kind of calm you don’t get from a peaceful life, but from a life where people step aside.

He glances up when I enter.

His gaze drags over me, slow.

I hate that my body is the first thing men notice.

I’m five-four, soft hourglass, full hips and thighs, a chest that makes simple clothes look fitted whether I want it or not.

I’m not trying to show anything off. I’m just built this way.

And most days I feel like my curves are barely tolerated, like I’m taking up too much space and everyone’s waiting for me to apologize for it.

My cheeks heat. I pull my cardigan tighter across my chest as if fabric can erase a shape. The simple pale dress underneath isn’t tight or fancy, but on me it still clings in places I wish it wouldn’t.

Dad clears his throat. “Evie, come sit. We’re just talking.”

Just talking.

I stay standing. Standing means I can leave.

“What is this?” I ask.

Dad laughs too quickly. “It’s an opportunity.”

The stranger’s mouth lifts into a pleasant smile that never reaches his eyes. “Evie McKenna.”

He says my name like he’s confirming an order.

Dad gestures toward him like he’s presenting a gift. “This is Mr. Voss. He’s… helping us.”

Helping us.

I look at Dad. “With what?”

Dad’s eyes flick away. He can never say the ugly part out loud. If he says it, he has to own it.

Mr. Voss speaks smoothly. “Your father has a problem. I’m offering a solution.”

Dad nods hard. “A clean slate. A fresh start.”

Fresh start. Dad collects pretty phrases the way other men collect tools. He says them like they fix things.

My stomach tightens. “What kind of solution?”

Dad flinches like I aimed too close to the truth.

Mr. Voss’s gaze dips again, deliberate. “The kind that requires your agreement.”

My pulse thuds once, heavy. “My agreement to what?”

Dad rushes in, voice shaky. “He’s stable. He’s old-fashioned. He can take care of you, Evie. You won’t have to worry anymore.”

I stare at my father.

He has never cared about me being taken care of. Not really. He cares about being rescued.

“What did you do?” I whisper.

Dad’s jaw tightens. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some criminal. I’m your father.”

He throws the word father like it’s a shield.

Mr. Voss leans forward, elbows on his knees. “No one is forcing you,” he says calmly. “You’re an adult. You can walk out that door.”

It’s such a neat sentence. Such a clean lie.

Dad nods eagerly. “See? You can say no. I just need you to hear him out.”

Hear him out.

Like the room doesn’t already feel like a trap.

Then Dad does what he always does when he feels me slipping away.

He grabs my mother.

His eyes flick to the shelf where the framed photo sits. My mom, tired and beautiful, smiling like she believed life would be kind to her.

Dad’s voice goes soft, cracking in all the right places. “Your mother would be ashamed of you right now.”

My lungs lock.

He keeps going, because he knows it’s working. “She died bringing you into this world. I raised you alone. I did everything for you. Don’t you dare turn your back on me now.”

My throat burns. “Don’t use her.”

Dad’s eyes shine. “Then don’t make me beg.”

Mr. Voss watches it all quietly, like he’s watching a sale close.

Something in me goes cold and clear.

If I stay, they’ll keep pulling until I give in. Until I say yes just to stop the pressure, just to make the guilt quiet.

And once I say yes, I’ll never get my life back.

So I fake it.

I let my shoulders drop. I let my face go blank.

“Fine,” I say softly. “I’ll listen.”

Dad exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. “Thank you.”

Mr. Voss stands, smooth and unhurried. “Good girl.”

The words make my skin crawl.

He pulls out a crisp folder and lays it on the coffee table. Dad’s hands shake as he opens it. Like he can’t help himself. Like he needs proof this is real.

A page slides out.

A bold heading.

Marriage Agreement.

My vision narrows. My ears ring.

Dad doesn’t look up. He can’t. He’s staring at the paper like it’s salvation.

Mr. Voss watches me, patient, certain. “A simple ceremony. Quick. Discreet. After that, your father’s debt disappears.”

I taste metal.

“Bathroom,” I say, and my voice doesn’t sound like mine.

Dad nods instantly, relieved I’m not screaming. “Yeah, okay.”

Mr. Voss gestures graciously. “Take your time.”

I walk to the bathroom on legs that don’t feel like mine.

I lock the door and brace both hands on the sink.

In the mirror, I look like a girl trying to play adult and failing. Hazel eyes too bright. Freckles across my nose. Hair slipping out of its clip in thick chestnut waves. A mouth too soft for the way my heart is pounding.

Curvy. Soft.

And suddenly I feel too much of everything. Too round, too visible, too easy to judge. Like my body is the first excuse people reach for when they want to decide what I deserve.

My gaze drifts up.

The small window above the tub is cracked open. Cold air slips in.

My heart slams.

I’m not tiny. Climbing through that window is going to be awkward. Messy. Loud.

But staying will be worse.

I climb onto the tub, fingers fumbling with the latch. It sticks. I push harder until it gives with a scrape.

I freeze, listening.

Nothing.

I haul myself through.

My hips catch for a second and panic flashes hot, but I twist and force myself out, dropping into the night.

The landing jars my knees. Pain shoots up my legs. I bite it down and run.

I run until my lungs burn and my hair whips into my face, cardigan flapping open, the dress clinging to my thighs with every stride.

Behind me, a door slams.

Voices.

Then an engine starting.

Ice floods my veins.

I cut down a side street, then another, turning blind, praying the dark will hide me.

Neon buzzes ahead like a miracle.

A bar.

Not a cute bar. A rough one. Bikes lined up out front, chrome catching the streetlights. Men smoking by the door, big silhouettes in leather cuts and patches like warnings.

The sign above the entrance flickers:

Throttle & Tomb.

I don’t hesitate.

I shove inside.

Heat and noise slam into me. Beer, smoke, leather. Music thumping low and heavy. Conversations falter. Heads turn.

I feel every stare like pressure. My curves make me too visible, my dress too out of place, my panic too obvious. I tug my cardigan closed again, trying to make myself smaller.

It doesn’t work.

So I move.

I scan the room, desperate for someone who looks like they could help.

And then I see him.

He’s at a table, alone, angled so he can see the whole room without trying. Big. Rugged. Dark hair. Beard. The kind of shoulders that fill space. He’s wearing a black leather cut. The back is turned partly away, but I catch the edge of a skull design, stark and brutal.

He looks like trouble.

He looks like the kind of trouble that makes other men behave.

His eyes lift and lock on me.

Piercing blue. Cold at first glance, but not empty. Focused. Like he’s reading my face instead of my body, clocking the fear, the shaky breath, the way my gaze keeps flicking toward the door.

And for one stupid second, something inside me steadies.

Like my body recognizes him as the strongest thing in the room.

The door behind me opens again.

Cold air sweeps in.

Footsteps hit the floor.

My heart drops straight into my stomach.

I don’t turn around. If I turn around, I’ll freeze.

I walk straight to the table.

Up close, he smells like clean soap and smoke, like leather warmed by skin. He’s bigger than I expected, rugged in a way that makes the room feel smaller.

His gaze stays on my face.

His voice is low when he speaks. “You lost, angel?”

I expect a smirk.

He gives me something worse.

Focus.

I don’t answer. I just act.

I step between his knees and sink into his lap.

His body goes still beneath me.

Rock solid. Warm.

His breath catches against my hair.

For one heartbeat, he doesn’t touch me.

Then his hands come up, firm at my waist, anchoring me like he’s decided I’m not falling tonight.

I press my mouth close to his ear, voice trembling.

“Please,” I whisper. “Pretend I’m yours. Your woman.”

His reply is so quiet it’s almost a growl, meant for me and me alone.

“Are you sure?” His grip tightens, just enough to make the question feel like a promise. “Because if I say you’re my woman… I’ll have to mean it.”

My eyes sting. My chest aches. The footsteps behind me stop, close enough that my skin prickles.

I nod once, sharp and desperate.

“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”

His hand slides up from my waist to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair like he’s found something he refuses to let go of. He tilts my face up, slow, giving me one last second to pull away.

I don’t.

The world narrows to his eyes, to the heat of his palm, to the steady strength under me.

Then his mouth covers mine, claiming it.

A deep, hungry kiss that steals the air from my lungs and turns my fear into something molten. His lips move like he’s done this a thousand times, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and my body reacts like it’s been waiting for him anyway.

My hands clutch at his shoulders, at the hard leather of his cut, because I need something solid.

Because he is solid.

He angles the kiss, and I feel his grip tighten at my waist, holding me in place like he’s shielding me from the entire room.

Somewhere behind me, I hear a chair scrape.

A voice.

But it fades under the rush of my pulse and the shock of want blooming hot in my chest.

He breaks the kiss just enough to breathe against my mouth, his voice a rough whisper meant only for me.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Now stay right here.”

And then he kisses me again.