Chapter 1
ROGUE
Golden light melts into the dark orange of the setting sun as the first few stars emerge on this chilly Spring evening.
I breathe in the cool air rushing past me, then lean into the curve of the road leading me back home.
With my motorcycle humming beneath me and the Colorado wilderness surrounding me, what else could I ever need in life?
Patching into Wicked Riders MC nearly fifteen years ago was my greatest and only accomplishment in my otherwise pathetic life, and I’ve been earning my keep ever since.
Even got selected for Road Captain last year, which meant a hell of a lot.
Not that I’d let it show to my brothers, of course.
But their loyalty and faith in me almost makes me want to have faith in myself again.
My bike purrs as it follows the bend of the remote highway, winding through tall trees and thick forests.
The sun glows reddish-orange, like a smoldering ember as it slips beneath the horizon.
A few dying rays of light pierce through the tree branches, falling on something strange on the side of the road.
It might just be an optical illusion from the shadows and twilight, but I swear the bundle of cloth is… moving.
I pull my bike over, not sure what to expect.
Did some monster throw a half-dead dog out the window of a moving vehicle?
Or it could possibly be a wild animal that got trapped.
Either way, I slowly dismount my bike and take a measured step toward the bundle that I can confirm is alive in some capacity.
My boots barely hit the ground before the creature turns around, hitting me with crystal blue eyes and a mess of red hair. Jesus Christ, it’s a woman who has been discarded and abandoned on the side of the road. What the fuck is wrong with people? How did she end up here?
Wide, terrified eyes blink up at me, tears streaming down her dirt-covered face. The breath is stolen from my lungs and my legs forget how to function. I fall to my knees, partially to make myself less intimidating, and partially because my heart just leapt out of my body to join hers.
She gives me a speculative look, those wide eyes taking in my wind-tangled, shoulder-length hair, the stubble on my weathered face, and the leather jacket bearing my club’s colors.
I’m thirty-nine, but with the hard life I’ve led, I’m sure I look at least a decade older, especially to a young little thing like her.
The woman uncurls herself from her position, sitting up and turning to face me fully. Caked-on mud clings to her skin, along with pebbles, twigs, and dried leaves. The areas of exposed flesh not covered in grime reveal scrapes and bruises that make me wonder what other scars she’s hiding.
Her bottom lip is trembling, but she holds her chin high.
My girl has been beaten down, but not defeated.
The moment her eyes meet mine once more, I see her true strength.
It’s buried under years of abuse, shame, and neglect, but I know deep in my soul, I’ll be by her side while we slay her demons one by one.
I lift my hands, palms out, in a sign of surrender.
She flinches, which feels like a thousand needles stabbing into my heart, but I take a calming breath and remind myself I have no idea what her story is.
I look like a mean motherfucker. Hell, I am a mean motherfucker, but for this woman?
I’d roll over and beg for belly rubs if I thought it’d make her happy.
What the actual fuck has gotten into me? Whose thoughts are these? Begging for belly rubs?
I don’t have time to process or justify any of it, nor do I need to. With each passing second, my true purpose solidifies itself deep in my bones. I’m going to be the balm to her wounds, both inside and out. Her scars go beyond skin-deep. I’ll heal what I can and love what I can’t.
Just like that, my entire world has shifted, and I’m not mad about it. How can I be anything but thankful when this angel exists?
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell the frightened woman. She won’t look at me, her eyes and face hidden beneath her raised arms. My chest caves in at the thought of her having to protect herself against an attack, let alone against me.
I hold my breath and body completely still, not sure what to say or do to make her trust me.
She’s shaking from head to toe, her scraps of clothing barely clinging to her body.
I want nothing more than to wrap her up in my arms, but that would be far too much, too soon. I’d scare the shit out of her.
“Who did this to you?” I ask. No response. No movement. She’s barely even breathing. “How can I help?”
The woman carefully lowers her arms, though she still won’t look me in the eye.
She starts to say something, but erupts in a coughing fit.
I jump up and grab the canteen of water I keep in my saddle bag, handing it to her.
Her trembling hand reaches out, and I notice her cracked and dirty finger nails, as if she’s been clawing her way through the forest for days.
For all I know, that’s exactly what happened.
I watch as she gulps down the water, some of it spilling down her chin. Poor girl must be dehydrated and half starved to death. She sets the canteen down and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I have more water and food at my place,” I tell her, trying to make my voice as soft as possible. I’m sure the prospect of riding on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle at night isn’t exactly comforting, but I can’t leave her out here for one more second, let alone an entire night.
My movements are gentle and calculated as I crouch down in front of her, offering my hand.
It’s rough, worn, and calloused, much like the rest of me.
To my complete shock, the broken, beautiful angel slips her much smaller hand into mine.
My heart squeezes up tightly inside my chest, then nearly explodes when she tightens her hold.
I pull my woman up, noting how much smaller she is than me.
No surprise there, at six-foot-three and three hundred pounds of muscle.
She’s almost a foot shorter than me, and while she has ample curves I’m not allowing myself to salivate over, my future wife is still tiny compared to me and adorable.
Perfect. She’s perfect. Now I just need to find out her name.
“I’m–” A car speeds by right as I’m about to introduce myself.
The woman gasps and presses herself against my chest, burrowing into my shirt to suppress a whimper.
My arms automatically circle her shoulders, giving her a light, comforting hug.
I’m not sure how hurt she is, and I don’t want to accidentally make any injuries worse.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur instead of trying to get through introductions. This is more important.
After a few moments of holding the most precious woman in the world, I gather my wits about me. I could stand here all night, but she needs a hot shower, a warm meal, and a good night’s sleep. Putting a ring on her finger will have to wait at least that long.
“My name is Rogue,” I tell her, needing to know the name of my future wife.
“M-Mel-Melodie,” comes the softest, most broken voice I’ve ever heard.
“Melodie,” I confirm, loving the way it feels on my tongue. “Do you trust me?” I whisper as I slowly untangle myself from her. She keeps her hand locked tight around mine, which makes me want to roar out in pride. I make her feel safe.
Melodie nods and allows me to lead her over to my bike. I hop on, then instruct her on how to get on behind me, noticing her bare feet for the first time. Again, I wonder what the hell she’s been through and how long she’s been out here.
My girl coils her body around mine, her arms shaking with the effort of holding onto my torso.
I somehow understand it’s not because she’s afraid to fall off, rather, she needs to prove I’m real.
One of my hands keeps a steady hold on the bike handle while the other covers her balled up fist resting just above my abdomen.
I brush my thumb over her knuckles, giving her this tender attention while speeding toward the safety of my home.
We arrive in under ten minutes, though the ride felt like an eternity. My angel has to be exhausted beyond belief, and I want nothing more than to tuck her into bed. As soon as I dismount, I offer my hand to help her off the bike. She takes it and doesn’t let go. I don’t mind.
Once inside, Melodie clings to my side. I consider giving her a tour of her new home, but decide against it. We’ll have plenty of time for that tomorrow. Instead, I guide her to the main bathroom and show her the towels, soap, and how to work the shower.
“I’ll grab a change of clothes for you and leave them outside the door, okay?
” I release her hand, but she whimpers and snatches it back, as if I’m the only thing keeping her from falling apart at the seams. “Do you… want me to stay?” It kills me to see her shoulders drop and her gaze fall to the floor.
“You can ask for what you need, angel,” I whisper.
A tiny gasp escapes her lips, and she tilts her head up to meet my gaze. “I… Um, I think I need help.”
Her tiny voice has a little more strength behind it. I pray she gives me the chance to bring more of that out in her. “We’ll figure out everything in the morning,” I assure her. “After food, shower, and sleep.”
“I meant… I…” she coughs and breaks eye contact as she folds in on herself again. “I need help getting out of… my clothes,” she whispers.
I furrow my brow, then take a closer look at her voluptuous body I’ve been trying to ignore.
The tattered gray dress falls to the floor, revealing a baby blue corset that looks to be a few sizes too small.
Melodie turns her back to me, and my stomach twists with anger when I see the rigid edges of the silk-covered cage encasing her torso.
The wires have dug into her skin, leaving welts and open wounds.
Dried blood stains the otherwise light-colored fabric, speaking to how long she’s been in these same clothes.
Who the hell is this woman? Who put her in this torture contraption? Where did she come from?
Something clicks in my mind as I begin to untie the far-too-tight corset.
Could this be the other woman Mika and Athena have been talking about?
Both of them escaped from a vile auction-slash-human-trafficking-ring last week.
My brothers and I at Wicked Riders have been working on dismantling the whole disgusting operation, and we’re almost ready to pull the trigger.
I wince when I pull the back of the corset open, hating the way my angel braces herself against the pain. I unintentionally ripped open a few sores and created new ones while trying to free her from her prison.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her as I carefully peel the sweat and blood-soaked material away from her skin.
“No, I-I-I’m sor-ry,” she stutters out. “I’m so gross. I’m so sorry. I’m…”
I have to squeeze my eyes shut and bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself under control. She’s apologizing to me? It strikes me that this precious woman doesn’t think she’s worthy of taking up space, let alone being cared for.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” I say in my most soothing voice.
Can’t say I make a practice of soothing people, but I’d do damn near anything to ease this woman’s suffering.
“You’re hurt and you’ve clearly been through something traumatic,” I continue.
“Let me help. Trust me to take care of you.”
I grab a towel and wrap it around her naked body, not wanting her to feel more exposed or vulnerable than she already is. “Why?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.
I can’t very well tell her it’s because I want to make her my wife and have my kid growing inside her by this time next year. Instead, I settle for, “Because I don’t think you’ve ever had that.”
Tears well up in her eyes and her lower lip trembles. One day, it won’t devastate or shock her to know she’s loved. Soon, my angel will only know happiness and light.
“Thank you,” Melodie whispers, blinking away the tears before they fall. She turns and steps into the shower, and I take my cue to leave.
I grab a change of clothes for her like I said I would, leaving them right outside the door. I lean against the wall next to the bathroom and close my eyes. I have no idea what to do next, but I’m satisfied for now that she’s in my home and under my protection.