Substitute Bride: Sold To The Ruthless Biker

Annelise POV:

"Hold your breath and stop slouching," Eleanor sneered, yanking the zipper of the emerald silk dress until the cold metal teeth bit straight into the skin of my spine.

I didn't flinch. I sat motionless before the mahogany vanity, my hands resting flat on the polished wood. In the triple mirror, the reflection staring back at me looked like a ghost wrapped in high-society satin.

"You should be grateful your father found a use for you," my stepmother continued, spraying a cloud of sickly sweet tuberose perfume into the air. The heavy, artificial scent caught in my throat, mixing with the metallic tang of dried blood beneath my tongue. "The Watkins family might be feral, but Collier Watkins is still a man who honors a debt. Try not to embarrass the Roman name before the ink on the settlement is dry."

From the chaise lounge near the balcony, my half-sister Brielle adjusted her cashmere shawl. She tilted her head, her blue eyes gleaming with venomous delight.

"Don't be so harsh, Mother," Brielle said, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy as she glided toward me. She picked up a hairbrush, dragging it through my dark hair with deliberate, painful pressure. "Collier 'King' Watkins is known for taking care of his property. Of course, they say he hasn't walked without pain in two years, and the last girl who spent a weekend at his clubhouse left in the back of an ambulance. But I'm sure you'll manage, Annelise. You've always been tough."

I looked into the mirror, watching Brielle's perfect smile twist with malicious anticipation.

I didn't answer her. Instead, my thumb traced the pale, three-inch scar running across the radial artery of my left wrist. It was an old habit, a nervous anchor from the five years I spent in underground basements, stitching gunshot wounds by flashlight and cleaning septic lacerations for men who carried dirty cash and unregistered pistols.

They thought they were sending an obedient, broken daughter to the slaughter.

What they didn't know was that forty-eight hours ago, I picked the lock on my father's private study. Behind the false panel in the wall safe, I hadn't just found financial ledgers. I had found a forty-page encrypted briefing from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives-a RICO target profile on the Iron Wraiths Motorcycle Club.

I had memorized every line.

The file ended with a bloody prediction. In eighteen months, during a violent three-way turf war along the interstate corridor, Collier would lose his mind to a lethal concoction of neurotoxins and PTSD, driving his club into a federal ambush.

They thought they were tossing me into the jaws of a monster.

They didn't know I had already read the monster's obituary. And under all that scarred flesh and criminal notoriety, Collier wasn't just a brutal warlord; he was a dying man on a ticking clock. A man with resources. A man with an army.

"Are you even listening to me, you mute bitch?" Brielle's voice snapped, her fingers digging sharply into my collarbone.

I raised my eyes, locking my gaze onto hers through the glass.

I didn't blink. I let the cold, flat void of my former life flood into my eyes-the coldness of a surgeon looking at rotting tissue that needed to be cut away.

Brielle's hand froze. The smirk faltered on her lips, her knuckles tightening around the silver brush as she took an involuntary step back. "What... what is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," I whispered, my voice level and dry as desert dust. "I'm just wondering how long it will take for this house to burn down once I'm not here to take the blame."

Downstairs, the heavy oak doors banged shut. Gregory Roman,my brother,his booming voice drifted up the curved stairwell, speaking into his cell phone with the smooth arrogance of an untouchable real estate tycoon.

"Yes, the package is ready," my father was saying. "Three o'clock sharp. Tell Watkins's men the gate will be open."

Package.

The word settled into my chest, snapping the final frayed wire of sentimentality. I wasn't their daughter. I wasn't Brielle's sister. I was collateral.

I stood up, smoothing the emerald silk down over my hips. I looked at my reflection one last time, letting a thin, razor-sharp smile curl the corners of my mouth.