I wouldn’t mate with her against her will.
I wasn’t like Darian.
He wore his charm like armor and left a trail of wreckage behind him—wolves he used, hearts he broke, girls who wound up pregnant and scared. And every time, Father and Martha cleaned it up quietly, buried the mess, and painted him as the perfect heir.
Looking back now, I saw it all more clearly than I ever had.
Darian—the golden boy, the spoiled prince. Martha’s precious son, her ticket to power, the puppet she dressed up as a leader.
And then there was me.
An accident at the wrong time, the wrong place, gave her everything she needed to destroy me.
The biker didn’t die because of me—not really. My brakes failed. There was silver in the wreckage, and to this day, I still don’t know how it got there.
The biker would
