All Chapters of The Biker's Rules: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Date = 8 NovemberPlace = San Francisco (Damion’s house)POV - MelaenaMy nose wrinkles before my brain catches up — garlic and melted cheese, and if I’m not mistaken, something caramelized in sugar.“Oh wow,” I murmur. “That smells illegal.”My stomach agrees, growling loud enough to embarrass me. Traitor.Damion slouches over the counter like he owns the place — which, annoyingly, he does — peels back some tinfoil, and tears into a slab of cheesy garlic bread.His teeth sink in. His eyes roll back. He moans.I swallow hard.My mouth waters. And not just for the food.“Mmm,” he hums, eyes closed like he’s having a spiritual experience. “That’s good.”I hate him. Deeply. Passionately.He demolishes the rest of the bread, then slips on lemon-green oven mitts and pulls two glass dishes from the oven. Steam rises. The air thickens. He sets them down next to the potato salad.I stare.Chicken pie. Sweet carrots glazed in sugar.“… Okay,” I admit. “That’s not what I expected.”“But?” he pro

Date = 9 NovemberPlace = San Francisco (Damion’s house)POV - Damion“So,” she says, hopping up onto the counter like she owns the place, “what are we making?”The scent of my soap drifts up as she moves — clean, light, familiar — and it hits me low in the gut. I fucking love the idea of her wrapped in my smell. I love it even more that she’s wrapped in my shirt, sleeves too long, hem brushing bare thighs.I purposely didn’t buy shirts for this exact reason.I step between her legs and brace my hands on either side of her hips, boxing her in. The counter digs into my thighs as I lean closer until we’re eye to eye. Her gaze is dark, buzzing with curiosity and caution, like she’s standing on unfamiliar ground and knows it. There’s a hesitation in the way she holds herself — subtle, but it’s there.If she had any idea how far out of my depth I am right now, she’d probably laugh.“So,” I murmur, tilting my head, “it’s WE now?”A grin tugs at my mouth. “And here I thought I was supposed to

Date = 9 NovemberPlace = San Francisco (Mel’s house)POV - MelaenaCandles. Wine.And a long, indulgent bath filled with lavender-scented foam — exactly what the doctor would prescribe if he knew my life.And he knows. He’s my brother.I slide into the bubbles, heat seeping into my bones, and close my eyes. For a moment, the world quiets.I wonder if Damion and Logan are already on the plane.The thought barely settles before my phone rings, slicing clean through the calm. One glance at the screen and my stomach tightens, that familiar, treacherous pull low and sharp.How does he do that? Even from miles away.I accept the video call, angling the phone so only my face shows — though between the steam, bubbles, and bad lighting, he wouldn’t see much anyway.“Hello.”It’s not Harry. Not D. It’s a whole different kind of danger.“Hi, angel.” The hoarse worry in his voice rolls over me, before I even catch his dark gaze, filled with an emotion between possession, vulnerability, protective

Date = 12 November I had a great start to the day. Now to finish it off with a bang!Place = San Francisco (Inferno) At my brothers’ club, of course.POV - Melaena“So,” Kiara says, studying me with those big, knowing eyes that miss absolutely nothing, “what’s your problem?”I don’t answer right away.Instead, I look down through the ‘magic’ glass, as we call it — huge glass panes that can switch from normal to one-way glass or frosted, depending on what you want. It separates the VIP area from the main clubbing area below.Comfortable pine seating booths are situated alongside the glass wall, and we’re seated at the one in the corner — designated for my brothers. And us.Right now, the glass is fully transparent, and my eyes sweep over the writhing mass of bodies below, searching for the stage like I’m keyed up and vibrating from the inside out.Tonight there’s an extra band member.Damion.Yes — turns out racing death machines isn’t his only talent. He can sing too.I know that. He

Date = 12 NovemberPlace = San Francisco (Inferno)POV - DamionThey’re both sleeping. We carry them out. They barely stir.The night air is colder now. It smells like asphalt and ocean salt drifting in from the bay.We load them into the back of my truck, carefully. Kiara mutters something about cats overthrowing humanity. Mel curls instinctively toward the warmth.I call my dad as I start the engine. “Can you come to my place? The girls were drugged.”A pause.“I’m on my way,” he says. No questions.I pull into a 24/7 store parking lot a few minutes later. For supplies. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like angry insects.“I’ll stay here,” Axel says, leaning against the truck, arms crossed. Protective. Guarding.“You need anything?”He shakes his head. “Maybe food,” he adds dryly.Inside, the store smells like cheap coffee and floor cleaner.I grab energy drinks. Chocolate. Crisps. Soda. Painkillers. Pies. Sandwiches.Basically, the entire junk food aisle.I don’t know what she’l