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His Unwanted Wife, The Secret Biker Boss

Xiu Luo

5.0

Romance

10 Chapters

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For years, I was the mechanic keeping the Salinas motorcycle club running, and the loyal wife to its heir, Chas. But right after I dragged myself out of a three-day fever, Chas paraded into the clubhouse with Kristina-a manipulative blonde playing the innocent victim. He proudly announced she was getting the "Honorary Medic" patch, an open slap to my face in front of the entire chapter. "Drop the sour look, Cinnamon," Chas barked. "She earned her place." His mother and spoiled sister immediately backed him up, demanding I hand over my private shop's debit card to pay $4,500 for Kristina's celebration and another $80,000 for custom riding leathers. They treated me like a bottomless ATM, sneering at my grease-stained hands while draining my accounts. His sister even had the nerve to mock my dead mother-the same mother who died because Chas stole her chemo money to pay off his illegal gambling debts. They actually thought I would just swallow the disrespect and keep funding their pathetic, entitled lives. Instead, I dropped the club's master keys on the bar and filed a formal property severance with the mother charter. I cut off every automated transfer, blocked their fuel accounts, and partnered with the most feared rival President on the West Coast. With the worst arctic freeze in thirty years about to hit, I bought up every drop of winterized diesel in the state. Let's see how long their fake saint keeps them warm.

His Unwanted Wife, The Secret Biker Boss Chapter 1

Cinnamon Collier POV:

I woke up to the stench of cheap motor oil and stale beer-and the certainty that I had died.

I sat bolt upright on the mattress, chest heaving. My right hand flew up in front of my face. Calloused fingertips. Grease-stained knuckles. No severed tendons. No crippled, trembling fingers.

I was back. Back to the day before everything burned to ash.

Heavy combat boots pounded down the hallway. The brass doorknob rattled, then the cheap wood cracked as the door slammed against the drywall.

Chas Salinas filled the doorway. My husband. Road Captain of the Salinas charter. He smelled of cheap tobacco, sweat, and another woman's white musk perfume.

He didn't look at my face. He tossed a leather cut onto the unmade bed.

"You need to be down at Church tonight," he said, lighting a cigarette. "I already talked to the table. We're patching Kristina in with a Co-Old Lady rocker."

My fingers curled against the sheet.

Kristina Dalton. The sweet-talking snake who had claimed credit for the West Plains run using a copied formula, while my trucks secretly moved the real antibiotics through a blizzard to keep these fools breathing. In my past life, that lie had been the start of my execution.

I didn't scream. I didn't throw things. I stayed in the dim corner, face flat, watching him posture.

Chas scowled at my silence. He stepped forward, using his height to loom over me.

"Don't start acting like a bitter bitch, Cinnamon," he sneered. "Kristina saved the entire charter during the West Plains ambush. She earned that rocker. You're going to show some respect."

I tilted my head. A razor-thin smirk touched my lips.

"She saved the charter?" My voice was rough from sleep, but steady as iron. "Those four crates of expired penicillin and moldy gauze really turned the tide, didn't they?"

Chas's face darkened. His fists clenched, knuckles popping.

"You're disgusting when you're jealous," he snapped, leaning down until his spit hit my cheek. "You hide up here counting petty shop receipts while she was out there putting her hands on dying men. You're not even one-tenth of the woman she is."

I stood up slowly.

I didn't back away. I met his dark eyes with an amber stare so cold the air between us seemed to drop ten degrees.

"If that's what you think, there's nothing I can do," I said quietly.

I raised my arm, caught the edge of the leather cut he had thrown on the bed, and shoved it off. It landed with a dull thud in the dust.

Chas froze. His mouth opened slightly in disbelief. He was used to my compliance, my quiet compromises to keep his garage afloat. The absolute void in my eyes caught him off guard.

Soft, hurried footsteps clicked in the hallway. Kristina's breathy voice drifted through the open door.

"Chas? Please don't fight with Cinnamon because of me," she pleaded, hovering just outside the threshold. "I don't need a patch. I never asked for any title."

Chas turned instantly toward the doorway, his harsh expression melting into sickening tenderness.

"You earned this, baby," he said softly. "Nobody in this clubhouse is going to disrespect what you did."

I watched them perform their little tragedy right outside my room. A deep nausea churned in my gut, but my right hand drifted casually to the nightstand, resting against the heavy steel shaft of a flathead screwdriver.

Chas turned back to me, his features hard again.

"You'll be in that basement at eight sharp," he ordered. "And you will vote yes. Don't push me, Cinnamon. I'm running out of patience."

I let go of the screwdriver and offered him an empty, polite smile.

"Sure," I said. "I'll be at Church. I'll give you both the answer you deserve."

Chas narrowed his eyes, suspicious of how easily I gave in, but his arrogance swallowed the doubt.

"Glad you finally found some sense," he muttered.

He walked out, not bothering to close the door. The sound of his boots and her heels faded down the staircase.

I pushed the door shut and turned the brass deadbolt until it clicked.

The room fell dead silent.

I crossed to the battered metal locker in the corner, knelt down, and pulled out the bottom drawer completely. Behind the false plywood backing rested a matte-black steel lockbox.

I spun the three-digit dial: 4-1-9.

The lid popped open. Inside lay three spare shop keys and an unregistered satellite phone.

This was my direct link to Iron Vault Logistics-the underground transport network I had built from the dirt up, the empire I had kept hidden from the Salinas parasites while they bled my personal trust dry.

I powered on the phone, watched the blue screen illuminate the dark room, and sent a single encrypted command to my operations lead:

[Initiate protocol cut-off. Freeze all blind capital injections to the Salinas garage immediately.]

The screen flashed: Message Delivered.

I held the cold plastic against my chest, listening to the muffled roar of the bikes downstairs.

Tonight's Church wasn't going to be Kristina's coronation.

It was going to be the start of their funeral.