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Too Late For Regret: The Biker Queen

Yi Xiaoxin

5.0

Romance

10 Chapters

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I was the Old Lady of the Iron Cross Motorcycle Club, secretly pregnant with the President's child. But before I could tell him, Bennet brought a bar girl into our clubhouse and announced she was taking my place. When she found my positive pregnancy test, she cornered me in the garage and shoved me hard into a steel engine stand. A sharp crack echoed through my spine, and a pool of dark blood quickly spread across the concrete beneath me. When Bennet rushed downstairs, my lead mechanic screamed at him to call an ambulance for his unborn child. But the bar girl clung to his arm, crying fake tears. "She's lying, Bennet! It's fake blood! She's doing this to ruin your party!" To save his pride in front of the rival clubs drinking upstairs, Bennet looked at me with disgust. "Nobody calls outside doctors into my clubhouse. Lock the doors." He ordered his men to bolt the heavy steel garage doors from the outside, leaving me to bleed out in the dark. Lying on the cold floor, feeling the life drain from my womb, my heart turned to absolute ice. How could the man I spent years building an empire for let our baby die just to protect his fragile ego? But I didn't die that night. I survived, and I quietly packed up every custom bike, engine patent, and dollar I had built for his club. It was time to show the President what happens when you cross the woman who holds the keys to your entire empire.

Too Late For Regret: The Biker Queen Chapter 1

Jazmyne "Raven" Duncan POV:

My hands gripped the cold porcelain edges of the sink until my knuckles turned white.

Under the flickering fluorescent tube of the second-floor bathroom, my eyes stayed fixed on the plastic stick lying on the counter. Two pink lines. Bold, sharp, and undeniable.

A heavy shudder ran through my stomach, pulling every muscle tight.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway outside. The heavy, rhythmic thud of steel-toed combat boots hitting hardwood. It was a tempo I knew in my bones-Bennet Cochran, President of the Iron Cross Motorcycle Club. My husband. The man who wore the Prez patch like a crown and treated everyone beneath him like disposable scrap.

I grabbed the pregnancy test, shoved it into the bottom of the trash can, and buried it under a thick wad of grease-stained paper towels. Nobody could know. Not now. Not in this clubhouse.

The heavy oak door flew open, slamming against the wall with a violent crack.

A wave of stale whiskey, cheap vanilla body spray, and highway exhaust rolled into the room, burning the back of my throat.

Bennet filled the doorway. His leather cut was unbuttoned, the embroidered Iron Cross skull patch gleaming across his broad chest. Right against the worn collar of his black shirt, smeared in plain sight, was a smudge of bright crimson lipstick.

I stepped back, putting physical space between us, my eyes dropping to the faded knife scar cutting across his jawline.

"You're still awake," he muttered, raking a calloused hand through his slicked-back dark brown hair. His hazel eyes were clouded with alcohol and something far colder. "Good. Saves me the trouble of dragging you out of bed."

"What do you want, Bennet?" I kept my voice flat, my thumb rubbing the smooth silver raven ring on my left index finger.

"Tomorrow night, Camisha is moving into the east suite down the hall," he said. He did not ask. He gave an order, the same way he commanded twenty patched outlaws in the meeting room downstairs.

"The east suite is reserved for a full patch's Old Lady," I said, cold bile rising in my throat. "She's a sweetbutt who's been hanging around the bar for three months."

Bennet closed the distance in one stride, his massive shadow swallowing me whole. His fingers locked around my jaw, digging into the bone with brutal force.

"I make the rules in this charter, Jazmyne," he growled, beer breath washing over my face. "I'm giving her a bottom rocker and a property patch at the next Church meeting. You're going to hand over the keys, and you're going to smile while she takes the room."

Pain flared along my jawline, sharp and hot, but I didn't flinch. I stared straight into his bloodshot eyes.

"And if I refuse?"

He sneered, shoving my face aside so hard my shoulder hit the mirror frame. He turned and kicked the plastic laundry basket across the room, sending dirty shop rags scattering across the floor.

"You won't refuse," Bennet sneered, walking toward the bedroom door. "You have nowhere else to go. You can't survive off this road without my cut on your back, Jazmyne. Stop playing hard to get. It's getting pathetic."

The bedroom door slammed shut behind him, rattling the framed motorcycle prints on the drywall.

I pressed my back against the cold tile, letting out a shaky breath, and slowly laid one hand over my flat stomach. Every lingering trace of hesitation, every ghost of the past five years, burned away into cold, clean ash.

I walked over to the nightstand, reached into the bottom drawer, and pulled out a cheap prepaid flip phone with no club tracking software.

My fingers pressed the ten digits I had memorized months ago.

The line clicked twice before a raspy, commanding voice answered.

"Alliance Central." It was Beatrice Foster, the iron-willed matriarch who sat on the supreme governing council of the Nine States MC Coalition.

"It's Jazmyne Duncan," I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on the sliver of light under the hallway door. "I am requesting an immediate, unilateral termination of my Property agreement with Iron Cross."

Silence hung on the line for two seconds.

"You know the law of the charter, girl," Beatrice said, her tone level. "Walking away from a President's colors carries a blood toll unless the table rules otherwise."

"He broke the foundational treaty," I replied, running a finger over the white surgical scar on my left forearm. "He brought an unvetted outsider into the inner sanctum and handed over quartermaster keys. I'm not asking for his permission. I'm taking my freedom."

"Fifteen days," Beatrice said after a short pause. "The Alliance charter requires that a formal release order be delivered at the quarterly circuit court, and the next circuit court is scheduled in exactly fifteen days. The Iron Cross territory falls under the outer jurisdiction belt. The envoy must complete three procedures first-document verification, blood-oath witness, and council filing. The earliest the order can be slapped onto the Iron Cross Church table is that moment."

She paused, her tone turning colder. "Until then, you had best keep your head down."

"Fifteen days. Done."

I snapped the phone shut, popped the battery, snapped the burner SIM card in half, and dropped it into the toilet bowl before flushing.

I walked to the closet, reached behind the row of heavy coats, and dragged out a thick canvas duffel bag. Inside were the master engine blueprints that Kirby Mullins, the club's founding builder who had poured his life into these machines, left me before he died-the proprietary fuel-injection schematics and cooling modifications that kept this charter running. Beneath the papers lay four vacuum-sealed stacks of hundred-dollar bills, saved dollar by dollar from off-the-books custom bike builds.

Downstairs, heavy bass vibrated through the floorboards as the clubhouse bar raged with drunken laughter and screaming engines.

I slipped five hundred dollars into the hidden lining of my combat boots.

Standing before the mirror, I reached behind my neck, unclasped the heavy silver dog tag engraved with "Bishop's Property," and tossed it into the dust behind the nightstand.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

The soft, deliberate scuff of a sneaker paused right outside my door.

I grabbed the heavy steel adjustable wrench from my work bag, stepped silently behind the doorframe, and watched the brass doorknob slowly begin to turn.