Chapter 3
Chapter Three
ELENA
Idon’t know his name. I only know the feel of leather beneath my cheek, rain cutting against my skin, and the violent rumble of his bike between my thighs as he takes corners like the devil himself is chasing us. Maybe he is. Maybe Grant is the devil.
I cling to the stranger because falling off feels less frightening than being taken back.
The road twists through trees and darkness.
Headlights flash behind us once, then vanish.
The man in front of me never panics or hesitates.
His body stays steady, powerful, controlled. Like he was made for danger.
Eventually, the bike slows. We turn off the road onto something narrower, rougher, hidden by hanging branches.
The world becomes mud, pine trees, rain, and darkness.
A cabin appears between the trees. Small and isolated.
Fear sparks again. The man kills the engine.
Silence crashes down. My arms stay locked around him.
He doesn’t move, grab me or force me off.
“Safe for now,” he says.
His voice is low. Rough. Calm. I peel myself away from him, trembling so badly my teeth chatter. When my bare feet hit the ground, pain slices through them. I stagger. He catches me by the elbow. I flinch so hard I nearly fall. His hand drops instantly.
“Easy,” he says. “Not gonna hurt you.”
I look up at him properly for the first time. He’s huge. Broad shoulders. Dark beard. Wet hair pushed back from a hard face. Tattoos crawl up his neck and disappear beneath his leather cut. His eyes are dark, sharp, and far too aware. The patch on his chest says: RYDER
“Is that your name?” I whisper.
His jaw shifts. “Road name. Works fine.”
“Road name?”
“Motorcycle club.”
My stomach tightens. A biker. A strange biker just took me to a cabin in the middle of nowhere. I should be terrified. I am terrified. But not the way I was with Grant. This man feels dangerous. Grant felt cruel. There’s a difference. Ryder unlocks the cabin door and steps back, leaving space.
“You can go in or you can stay out here. Your choice.”
My choice. Such a simple thing. It nearly breaks me. I step inside. The cabin smells like woodsmoke, dust, and old coffee. Ryder moves around carefully, turning on a lamp, checking windows, locking the door. Not frantic. Methodical.
“Bathroom’s through there,” he says, nodding toward a narrow hallway. “Towels under the sink. I’ll find clothes.”
I grip my backpack against my chest. “Why are you helping me?”
He looks at me then. Really looks. At the bruises, my torn dress and blood dried at my lip. Something dark passes across his face.
“Because someone should’ve done it sooner.”
My throat closes. I go into the bathroom before I cry in front of him. The mirror is worse than the one at the country club. There, I looked like a bride. Here, beneath harsh yellow light, I look like what I am. A woman who barely escaped.
The makeup has run, revealing the bruise along my cheek.
My collarbone is stained purple. Finger marks circle my wrist. I pull at the dress, but the zip is stuck.
Panic claws up my chest. I twist harder.
The fabric tightens. I can’t breathe, can’t get out.
A sob rips from me before I can stop it. A knock comes instantly.
“Elena?”
I freeze. I never told him my name. Then I remember the envelope. The backpack. My ID. No. No. No. The door stays closed.
“I saw it on your licence when I checked your bag for a phone tracker,” Ryder says through the wood. “Didn’t take anything. Didn’t read more than I needed.”
My hand shakes against my chest. “Dress,” I whisper. “I can’t…”
The door opens slowly, only an inch. “Want help?”
Want. Not need, hold still or stop being difficult. Want. I nod before remembering he can’t see me.
“Yes.”
He steps inside and immediately turns his gaze away from my reflection, focusing only on the stuck zip at my back.
His fingers brush the fabric, not my skin.
Careful. So careful it hurts. Grant was never careful.
Ryder works the zip down slowly, jaw clenched like touching even the edge of my dress costs him effort.
“There,” he says.
Then he leaves. No lingering look, smirk or claim.
Just space. I slide out of the ruined wedding gown and let it fall in a heap on the bathroom floor.
For a moment, I stare at it. The dress meant to bury me.
Then I step over it. When I come out wrapped in a towel, Ryder has placed clothes on the bed: black sweatpants, a faded T-shirt, thick socks.
He stands by the window with his back to me.
“Clothes are clean,” he says. “Too big, but warm.”
“Thank you.” He nods once.
I dress quickly, wincing when fabric brushes my ribs. When I return, Ryder is setting a first-aid kit on the table.
“You hurt anywhere I can’t see?” Everywhere.
“My feet,” I say.
He points to a chair. “Sit.”
The command is rough, automatic. I stiffen. He notices and his expression changes.
“Please.”
That single word makes my eyes burn. I sit. Ryder kneels in front of me. A biker with blood on his knuckles and death in his eyes kneels on an old wooden floor to clean mud from my feet. I don’t know what to do with that. He picks glass from my heel with tweezers.
I hiss. “Sorry.”
I almost laugh because the whole night is insane.
“You’re apologising to me?”
His eyes flick up. “Yeah.”
Nobody apologises to me. Not Grant, his father and the people who watched and pretended not to know. Ryder bandages my feet, then my wrist, then hands me an ice pack for my cheek. He doesn’t ask questions. That somehow makes me want to answer them.
“I was supposed to marry him today,” I whisper.
Ryder stills. “I guessed.”
“I ran before the ceremony.”
“Good.”
The word is hard. Final. My fingers tighten around the ice pack.
“He’ll come for me.” Ryder stands.
The room feels smaller with him at full height.
“Let him.”
The way he says it should scare me. Instead, for the first time all day, I feel warm.