Protected By the Bikers (Ruthless Riders #4)

Prologue Bonnie

Fuck.

I wince at the sight of the purple fingerprints circling my throat like a goddamn choker. I dab some concealer over the worst spots, my steady hands working the makeup brush with the same care I use when shading a tattoo.

My reflection glares back from my vanity mirror—wild auburn curls that refuse to stay in the fancy updo the hairdresser spent two hours creating this morning, green eyes the color of sea glass blazing with pure fury, full lips pressed into a hard line that could cut diamonds.

My skin is pale as moonlight, freckles scattered across my nose like constellation stars. High cheekbones, inherited from my Irish grandmother, and a stubborn jaw from my dad’s side of the family. The bruises stand out like purple paint splattered on a white canvas.

They’re fresh.

Three hours fresh, to be exact.

This morning, I was grabbing coffee from Murphy’s Diner—the last normal thing I wanted to do before my arranged marriage today—when I spotted some dickhead in a torn Patriots jersey shoving around old Mrs. Kowalski outside on the sidewalk.

She’s maybe ninety pounds soaking wet, clutching her worn brown leather purse like it held the crown jewels, while this asshole twice her size screams about her walking too slow and blocking his path to his beat-up Honda.

Mrs. Kowalski has lived on this block my whole life. She runs the corner market, always gives me a sad smile when she sees the bruises I can’t quite hide, slips an extra candy bar in my bag when Dad’s crew gets too loud outside her store.

She’s a good person in a neighborhood full of assholes. She doesn’t deserve some roided-up dickhead taking his bad day out on her.

My coffee cup slipped from my fingers, hot liquid splashing across the concrete as I crossed the street.

Six quick strides, and I was in his face. My fist connected with his jaw before his pea brain could catch up to what was happening, and my knuckles exploded with pain as they met his lip and jawbone.

Ghost taught me that move during one of our training sessions behind the clubhouse. Strike fast, strike hard, end it before they know what’s happening. The moron stumbled backward, blood spurting from his lip, staining his already-dirty jersey.

“What the hell, you crazy bitch!”

He lunged for me, meaty hands reaching for my throat. Got his fingers wrapped around my neck before I drove my knee straight up into his balls with everything I had.

Titan always said to target the soft spots—throat, groin, solar plexus. Make them hurt so bad they can’t think about fighting back.

The asshole dropped like a stone, whimpering on the cracked sidewalk while Mrs. Kowalski shuffled away muttering prayers in Polish and crossing herself repeatedly. She paused at the corner, looked back at me with tears in her eyes, and nodded once before disappearing around the building.

Worth every goddamn mark on my skin.

I blend more concealer into the purple handprints.

My bedroom smells like vanilla candles and the faint trace of tattoo ink that clings to everything I own.

Afternoon sunlight streams through windows I’ve stared out of my entire life, hitting the posters on my walls—motorcycle designs, tattoo flash art, band posters from concerts I snuck out to attend.

My wedding dress hangs from a hook on the door behind me like a ghost I haven’t decided to believe in. It’s styled in some high-fashion designer’s idea of what an outlaw’s bride should look like. Ruffles and lace and bullshit innocence.

Dad bragged about the price tag, as if he were buying me a trophy instead of a prison. Hundreds of seed pearls hand-sewn into the bodice, fancy French lace, and silk that probably came from some royal fucking silkworms.

I’m getting dressed alone because Mom’s been dead since I was twelve, and Dad’s secretary isn’t exactly the maternal type. The club girls offered to help, but I’d rather do this myself than have them fussing over me.

The dress will cover everything that makes me who I am.

I trace the phoenix tattoo on my right shoulder blade, feeling his needle work under my fingertips.

Rising from bright orange flames, wings spread wide in defiance, fierce and unbroken and absolutely refusing to stay down.

He inked it six months into my apprenticeship, said I reminded him of the mythical bird that burns and rises stronger.

“You torch everything in your path and come back deadlier,” he said, tattoo needle buzzing as it danced across my skin in perfect lines. “Don’t let anyone clip your wings, kid. You were born to fly.”

Looks like someone’s about to try.

Snake’s been my mentor since I turned seventeen and walked into his shop with my first design sketched on a napkin. He didn’t laugh at it like I’d expected. Instead, he saw a raw talent that just needed guidance and endless practice.

I wanted to learn because ink tells stories in this world. Every brother’s skin is a roadmap of where he’s been, what he’s survived, who he’s lost.

I wanted to be the one creating those stories, marking the moments that matter. Making art that means something instead of just pretty pictures on rich girls’ ankles.

My fingers drift to the thorned roses wrapping around my left wrist. Each petal perfectly shaded from deep crimson to soft pink, each thorn sharp and black against my skin. It took Snake eight hours over two sessions to complete, my wrist swollen and tender by the end.

“You planning to seduce men or stab them with those roses?” he’d asked, wiping away excess ink.

“Why not both?”

He laughed so hard he nearly dropped his needle gun. “That’s my girl. Beautiful on the surface, dangerous underneath.”

The tattoo shop feels like home in ways this clubhouse never has, despite growing up here.

The constant buzz of machines working, the sharp smell of antiseptic mixed with black ink, clients trusting me to mark their stories permanently on their skin.

I’ve been apprenticing for almost two years, building my reputation one perfect design at a time.

My sketchbook sits in my closet in my bedroom, overflowing with original artwork that gets better with every page. Dragons breathing fire, sugar skulls decorated with intricate patterns, and realistic portraits that capture souls in black and gray ink.

I had five appointments lined up for next week. Miller wanting a memorial piece for his dead mother. Jake is finally ready for that full sleeve he’s been planning for months. Mrs. Liu—getting her first tattoo at sixty-five to celebrate beating cancer.

They’re all canceled now. Snake had to call them personally, explain that his apprentice was getting married and moving away.

Snake’s been teaching me everything he knows—color theory, line work, how to read a client’s vision and translate it into reality. The business side too. Ordering supplies, booking appointments, and handling difficult customers who think they can haggle over prices.

Now I’m about to become Mrs. Marcus fucking Stone.

At least I got one night that was mine.

Ash’s hands on my hips. Ghost’s tongue on my clit. Titan’s grin before he fucked me like he’d been thinking about it for years. The cabin, the bed, all three of them proving I wasn’t crazy for wanting what I wanted.

One perfect night before I have to spend the rest of my life wishing I were dead.

I grab the wedding dress from its hook, silk whispering against itself like secrets being shared. Can’t think about them right now. Can’t think about what I’m walking away from, or I’ll never make it through those doors.

The fabric feels cool and alien against my skin, nothing like the comfortable cotton and denim I prefer.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and work it deep into the dress’s built-in corset before finishing the buttons. If I’m walking into hell, I’m keeping one connection to my real life, because I know someone will try to take it away the second I walk through those doors.

The long sleeves stretch from shoulder to wrist, covering every inch of ink on my arms. Can’t have the Savage Legion seeing their new princess has tattoos covering her skin like a roadmap of rebellion. Might give them ideas about what kind of girl they’re really getting.

The skirt weighs more than my motorcycle leathers, layers upon layers of silk and tulle designed to make me look virginal and helpless. I can barely walk in this thing, let alone run if I need to escape.

Bass thumps through the wooden floorboards from the party happening downstairs in the main bar.

My father’s crew is drinking beer and shooting pool with Savage Legion members like they’re old friends celebrating a happy occasion instead of attending my funeral.

Because that’s what this is—the death of Bonnie McKenzie, tattoo apprentice and fighter of bullies.

Dad couldn’t even be bothered to stick around for his nineteen-year-old daughter’s wedding. Had to fly out to Phoenix last night for some urgent club business that couldn’t wait another day.

Laughter carries down through the ceiling, male voices getting louder as the alcohol flows. They’re probably telling stories and comparing scars while I get ready to be handed over like a peace offering to end their stupid war.

I apply my lipstick, bloodred to match my current mood. While the makeup artist did decent work this morning, giving me smoky eyes rimmed with black liner and sharp cheekbones highlighted with powder, I knew I was going to do my own final touch-ups.

The mirror in front of me reflects a stranger wearing my face, but I don’t linger on the image for too long.

My diamond choker goes on next. Dad insisted on it during our shopping trip to the fancy jewelry store downtown. Said it would “complement the dress beautifully” and “show the Savage Legion we have class.” What it really complements is the fingerprint bruises I’m hiding underneath.

I take one last look in my bedroom mirror. Time to go face my future.

The narrow hallway reeks of stale Marlboro Reds and worn leather—forty years of MC life soaked deep into these walls.

Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, with that annoying buzz that makes you want to punch something.

A sickly yellow light casts shadows across framed photos of deceased brothers lining both walls.

Rodriguez, smiling next to his Harley. Big Jim, with his arms around his twin daughters, died in a car bomb meant for Dad. Reaper, Spike, Diesel. They’re all gone. Their faces haunt this hallway like ghosts demanding justice I can’t deliver.

I’m halfway to the main room when something vibrates against my ribs.

Fuck! I forgot to silence the goddamn thing.

I stop dead in the hallway, glancing toward the noise coming from downstairs. If anyone heard that…

The phone buzzes again, more insistent this time, vibrating against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. Panic shoots through me as I back toward my bedroom door, praying no one downstairs noticed the sound over their drinking and laughing.

I slip back into my room and close the door behind me, heart pounding.

The tight corset fights me as I frantically work to fish the device out, boning resisting every movement. Sweat beads along my hairline as I finally manage to work it free, fingers shaking.

The screen lights up: Jackal.

My brother. My best friend. My protector since the day I was born. The only man alive who’s never once treated me like a second-class citizen because I happened to be born female instead of male.

He taught me to throw a proper punch before I learned to ride a bicycle.

Jackal’s been gone for three months, sent by Dad to establish a new Ruthless Devils chapter two states over. It’s convenient timing that keeps him far away while his baby sister gets sold off to the enemy. I know he would have fought this arrangement tooth and nail if he’d been here.

My hands shake slightly as I swipe to open his message. God, I hope he has good news.

Maybe he found a way home. Maybe he’s got a plan to stop this nightmare before it starts.

I read the words on my screen, and my entire world crashes down around me.

Dad’s in jail. Someone snitched. You need to get out of there. NOW.