Reborn To Ruin My Cheating Biker Husband

Kamilah POV:

Pain woke me. My ribs throbbed as if tires had crushed them. I blinked at a ceiling.

The Turner Clubhouse. My husband's club. Home.

I was back.

Back on the exact day my life had been torn apart. The day Kenton would announce Britt Schwartz as his second Old Lady. The same day my brother Dayne would ride to the Interstate Arbitration Church and die there because of Turner's betrayal.

This time, I had to stop it. I had to reach the Rodgers family garage before Dayne left.

The bedroom door kicked open. Kenton walked in, wearing his leather Cut, the Turner MC patches stretched over his broad chest.

"Get up, Kamilah," he said, smirking down at me. "Get dressed. It's a big day for the club."

I stared up at the man who had starved my family, stole our legacy, and left me to die on the asphalt in my past life.

A cold, visceral nausea twisted in my heart, but I forced every muscle in my face into hard stillness.

"A big day," I said, my voice razor-sharp. "You mean the day you officially announce your side piece as your second Old Lady?"

His smirk vanished. He reached for my shoulder. "Stop acting like a jealous child. This is for the territory. Britt earned her colors."

I slipped past his reach with a fluid twist of my torso, pivoted on my heel, and swung my palm across his jaw with every ounce of my weight.

The crack of the slap echoed through the small room like a gunshot.

Kenton's head snapped sideways.

He staggered back two steps, his hand flying to his rapidly reddening cheek, his eyes wide with absolute disbelief.

"Did you just hit me?" Kenton snarled, his voice rising in pitch. "Have you lost your damn mind? Without me and my club, you are nothing in this county!"

I stepped into his space. "Take your filthy hands off me, Kenton. And never touch me again."

He glared at me, chest heaving, then kicked the bed frame. "Get downstairs in ten minutes. Don't embarrass me in front of the charter."

He slammed the door behind him.

I did not waste a single second.

I threw off the sheets, went straight to the closet, and yanked out my worn black leather riding jacket.

I pulled open the bottom drawer, reaching all the way into the hollowed-out wooden backing to grab my custom titanium mini motorcycle wrench.

The freezing metal pressed against my palm, grounding the fire in my blood.

I slipped the wrench into the concealed sheath inside my right riding boot and pulled the zipper up.

I swung the bedroom door open and stepped into the dimly lit hallway.

The smell of stale beer and sweat grew thicker as I walked toward the back exit.

Under the flickering ceiling lamp, a woman leaned against the wall, blocking the narrow stairs.

She is Kenton's mistress, Britt Schwartz.

Britt Schwartz wore skin-tight red-and-black leathers, holding a glass of amber whiskey in her left hand.

The row of silver barbells along her left ear caught the dim light as she tilted her head back with a triumphant grin.

"Look who finally decided to come out of hiding," Britt sneered, her voice loud enough to carry down to the bar. "Ready to accept your new reality, little housewife?"

I stopped two feet away. "Enjoy your stolen spotlight while you can, Britt. Soon you won't have teeth left to cry with."

Her sneer froze. Before she could answer, I drove my shoulder into hers and knocked her against the wall. Whiskey splashed over her jacket. I kept walking.

I did not look back as I pushed open the heavy emergency exit and stepped into the biting night air.

I got on my black Harley and started the engine. I leaned low into the sharp curves of the industrial backroads, taking the path toward the old Rodgers family garage.

Five minutes later, I slid the bike sideways in front of the rusted roll-up door. Dayne was on the concrete apron, trying to hoist his paralyzed lower body onto a customized trike. The jagged bullet scars across both kneecaps showed beneath his cut-off jeans.

"Dayne!" I shouted. I dropped the kickstand, ran to him, and yanked the ignition key out of the trike's console.

He snapped his head toward me, his dark grey eyes burning with rage. "Kamilah? What the hell are you doing here? Give me back the key!"

I clenched the key until it bruised my palm. "I'm not letting you ride to the Interstate Arbitration Church to throw your life away."

Kamilah POV:

Dayne's heavy fist smashed down onto the steel gas tank of the trike, the metal ringing out in the quiet night.

He shoved hard against the frame, trying to force his dead legs to take his weight, but his knees buckled instantly.

He collapsed back into the leather seat of his wheelchair, breathing heavily through clenched teeth.

"They are publicly humiliating you tonight, Kamilah!" Dayne growled, a vein bulging on his temple. "They are making you share your patch with that lying street trash! I am going to Church, and I am demanding a blood trial from the elders!"

I looked down at his left knee, where the sudden strain had caused fresh blood to seep through his bandage.

A sharp pang of grief hit my chest, but I stepped forward and planted both hands firmly on his shoulders.

"A blood trial?" I asked, forcing him to look directly into my eyes. "You think Erastus Luna and the Church give a damn about justice? Kenton set a trap for you. You ride in there alone on three wheels, and his Enforcers will gun you down in the parking lot and call it self-defense."

Dayne froze, the wild fire in his eyes flickering with confusion.

He had never heard me speak like this. For three years, he had watched me swallow my tongue and play the dutiful, quiet wife to keep the peace.

I let go of his shoulders, walked over to the wooden workbench in the center of the garage, and grabbed a shop rag to wipe the dust from my hands.

I reached inside the inner zip pocket of my riding jacket and pulled out a thick stack of folded financial printouts.

I walked back and slapped the papers directly onto Dayne's lap.

"Look at them," I commanded quietly. "Look at what your beloved brother-in-law has been doing with our family's blood money."

Dayne picked up the papers with trembling, grease-stained fingers.

Under the harsh glare of the garage fluorescent tube, his eyes scanned the ledger lines.

His jaw tightened until the muscles locked, his knuckles turning chalk-white against the paper.

"This... this is impossible," Dayne rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "The quarterly supply budget for our two hundred Harleys... the title deeds to our secondary machine shop... transferred to a private holding firm under the name Schwartz?"

"Tommy Schwartz," I corrected, leaning my hip against the workbench with my arms crossed over my chest. "Britt's brother. The one who owes over a million dollars to the illegal chop shops in the south. Kenton didn't bring her in for border protection. He brought her in to bleed our trust fund dry."

Dayne crushed the papers into a tight ball inside his fist, a murderous glare returning to his face.

"I will take what is left of our old crew," he snarled, reaching down for the leather holster strapped to his chair. "I will burn the Turner clubhouse to the ground tonight."

"With what?" I asked, my voice flat and unyielding as I pointed at his legs. "You can't even stomp a rear brake pedal, Dayne. And half the crew took Kenton's payroll the minute our father died."

The brutal truth hit him like a physical blow.

Dayne squeezed his eyes shut, his broad chest heaving as he dropped his head into his hands.

I knelt down in front of his wheelchair, taking his cold, calloused hands into mine.

"I did not come here to stop you from getting revenge, Dayne," I said softly, looking up into his worn face. "I came here to show you how we crush them until there is nothing left to bury."

Dayne opened his eyes, staring at me as if looking at a stranger wearing his sister's face.

"What are you planning to do?" he asked.

I stood up, every trace of softness vanishing from my expression.

"I am going back to that party," I said. "And I am going to rip their lies apart in front of every patched member in San Pedro."

I walked back to the workbench, reached into the hidden compartment behind the tool rack, and pulled out an asset separation contract.

I slammed it down onto the table.

"I am taking back every single bolt and title that belongs to the Rodgers family," I said. "And then, I am severing that marriage contract for good."

Dayne looked at the legal documents on the table, silence stretching between us for several seconds.

Finally, he exhaled a long, ragged breath and nodded.

"Kenton has six full-patch Enforcers in that room," Dayne warned, his voice steadying. "You can't walk into that snake pit alone."

A cold smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. "Who said I was going alone?"

Before Dayne could ask, a low, thundering rumble rolled in from the dark highway outside.

The sound was distant at first, but within seconds, the vibration grew so intense that the corrugated metal roof of the garage began to rattle.

Dayne's hand immediately dropped to the grip of his .45 pistol. "Is that Turner's men?"

I turned toward the wide-open bay doors, watching the dark horizon. "No. That is our real ally."

The roar abruptly cut out just outside the apron, replaced by the crackle of cooling exhaust pipes.

Brilliant, piercing halogen beams cut through the gloom of the garage, blinding us for a split second.

Through the dust and light, a dozen massive figures on heavy black cruisers idled in perfect formation.

On the lead bike-a stripped-down, matte-black custom machine-the rider slowly reached up and removed his helmet.

Grady Fernandez looked through the open door, his icy green eyes locking onto mine with absolute, lethal focus.

Kamilah POV:

Grady swung his long leg over the high frame of his blacked-out Harley, his heavy tactical boots hitting the grease-stained concrete with a solid thud.

He wore the full-grain leather Cut of the Iron Crown MC, the "PRESIDENT" patch stitched in silver thread across his left breast.

The collar of his cut showed the edge of the grim reaper skull tattoo trailing up the side of his neck, radiating the kind of quiet, violent authority that made entire rooms stop breathing.

Dayne's hand slowly eased off the grip of his pistol, his eyes widening in shock before settling into deep respect.

"Reaper," Dayne said, nodding once. "What the hell are you doing in Rodgers territory?"

Grady did not look at Dayne immediately.

His pale green eyes cut through the shadows of the garage, fixing directly on me where I stood by the workbench.

He walked past Dayne's wheelchair, his massive frame blocking the garage lights and casting a broad shadow over me.

My breath caught slightly in my throat.

The memory of him bleeding out on the Black Ridge Pass in my previous life flashed through my mind, sending a sharp jolt through my chest.

His arrival today was not an accident, but rather something I had arranged.

From the moment I regained consciousness, I immediately began implementing my revenge plan, and then swiftly arranged all the necessary details.

I'd sent a coded text to my shop crew the moment I'd cleared the clubhouse gates, and I could only hope they'd moved as fast as I had.

"Word on the interstate is Turner is throwing a celebration tonight," Grady said, his voice low, gravelly, and laced with dark amusement.

He stopped less than an arm's length away.

The scent of rich leather, Virginia tobacco, and cold night air rolled off him, mixed with the faint, sharp scent of his peppermint aftershave.

He raised a rough, calloused hand and brushed his thumb lightly across my cheekbone, catching a streak of black grease near my ear.

The heat of his skin against mine sent a sudden, electric tingle racing down my spine.

"You plan on crashing a charter party looking like this, Valkyrie?" Grady murmured, his lips curving into a dangerous half-smile.

I tilted my head back, refusing to break eye contact, fighting down the sudden flutter in my pulse. "It is more than enough for what I need to do to them."

Grady let out a low chuckle, his thumb lingering for a fraction of a second before dropping back to his side, his hand resting naturally on the grip of the Glock holstered at his kidney.

He turned his attention toward Dayne.

"Arthur Rodgers pulled me out of a ditch when I was a prospect with nothing to my name," Grady said, his voice dropping into pure steel. "The Rodgers family will never stand alone while the Iron Crown draws breath. Tonight, I back her play."

Dayne stared at him, the tension in his broad shoulders finally melting away.

I grabbed the waterproof tactical backpack off the bench, shoving the separation agreement and the financial records inside.

Tires screeched outside the bay doors as two beat-up pickup trucks pulled up behind Grady's formation.

Tessa and Roxy, my two most loyal mechanics, jumped out of the cabs, running into the garage with heavy file cases.

Tessa froze when she saw the dozen heavily armed Iron Crown riders standing around the perimeter, while Roxy gripped an oversized pipe wrench defensively.

"They are with us," I called out, waving them forward. "Did you get the shop safe ledgers and the title transfers?"

Roxy swallowed hard, nodding rapidly. "Everything from the safe. The inventory lists, the bank routing numbers, every single signed part request from Kenton."

"Pack it in," I said, pointing to the bag.

I turned back to Grady, my jaw set. "We are ready."

Grady's eyes darkened with approval.

He turned toward the bay door, raised two fingers in the air, and gave a sharp, downward slash.

"Mount up!" Grady barked.

Behind him, twelve patched Iron Crown enforcers dropped onto their bikes in absolute unison, their heavy boots hitting footpegs as one.

I walked over to my Harley, strapped the tactical pack across my chest, and pulled my helmet over my head.

Through the tinted visor, I saw Grady sitting astride his custom cruiser, watching me.

He had not put his helmet back on. The cool night wind tousled his dark hair as he gestured toward the open road, giving me the lead.

I twisted the throttle, letting the engine scream, and launched out of the garage onto the empty blacktop.

Grady dropped in immediately to my left, his front wheel locked with mine, while twelve Iron Crown bikes formed a tight, thundering wedge behind us.

The roar of fourteen heavy engines shook the desert highway, vibrating deep inside my bones.

Twenty minutes later, the garish red-and-yellow neon sign of the Turner Clubhouse appeared on the horizon.

Bass from the sound system rattled through the metal siding of the compound.

I did not touch the front brake.

The two Turner prospects guarding the double wooden entrance dropped their beer bottles in terror as our headlights washed over them.

They scrambled out of the way just as I stood on the footpegs, locked my arms, and drove the heavy front tire of my Harley straight into the double oak doors.

The wood shattered with an explosive crash, sending splinters flying into the crowded party hall.