Delilah Hayes never thought she’d be the kind of girl who ran away on her wedding day.

But there she was—heart hammering, veil twisted around her elbow, running barefoot down a side street behind the Grand Marlowe Hotel like something straight out of a bad soap opera. The sound of her heartbeat was so loud it drowned out everything else, even the distant shouting of her name and the frantic clicks of someone’s heels behind her.

She didn’t look back.

Her white dress dragged behind her, catching dirt, leaves, and whatever debris lined the alley. Her curls were falling from the elegant updo she’d sat still for three hours to get done. Her lipstick had smeared from biting her bottom lip too hard. But none of that mattered.

She had to get away. Now.

The moment she stood in front of those grand ballroom doors, about to be paraded into a picture-perfect wedding with Gregory Alcott—Senator Alcott, she corrected bitterly—something inside her snapped. It wasn’t the nerves people always talked about. It wasn’t fear of commitment or some fleeting sense of doubt.

It was terror. Bone-deep, paralyzing terror.

Because Delilah had seen something.

Not a metaphor. Not a premonition. Something real. Something that made her realize everything she had tried to ignore for months was true.

The bruises. The controlling curfews. The private phone calls. The subtle threats that sounded like promises. The man who kissed her hand in front of cameras and then gripped her wrist so tight behind closed doors she had to wear sleeves the next day.

No one knew. Not really. They thought she was marrying up. That she was lucky. That she was stepping into power and prestige, not a gilded cage with invisible bars.

So she ran.

She ran because her soul screamed louder than the music in the ballroom. She ran because she knew Gregory wouldn’t let her walk away. And she ran because—somehow—her body moved before her brain could convince her to be polite and go back.

“Delilah!” someone shouted behind her.

She gasped and ducked around a dumpster, slipping down a narrow alley that led to the service street behind the hotel. Her feet throbbed with every step. The dress snagged on a nail, and she yanked it free without stopping. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

She was almost out of the alley when she saw it.

A motorcycle. Black. Gleaming chrome. Parked crooked against the curb like its owner didn’t care about rules or tickets.

And next to it stood a man.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black jeans and a leather jacket. Tattoos snaked up his forearms and disappeared under his sleeves. His hair was messy in a deliberate kind of way, like he woke up looking good and didn’t bother fixing it. He had that “dangerous and doesn’t care” kind of presence—the kind that makes people look twice and cross the street.

Delilah skidded to a stop.

The man turned, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching her like she’d fallen out of the sky. His eyes flicked down her dress and back up to her face. He looked more curious than surprised.

“Problem?” he asked casually.

Delilah hesitated for exactly one second.

Then she ran straight toward him.

“Please,” she gasped. “Can you give me a ride? Anywhere. I just—please.”

He arched a brow. “You tryna rob a chapel or something?”

“No!” she snapped, half-laughing, half-crying. “I was supposed to get married. I—I changed my mind.”

He looked over her shoulder, his face tensing slightly.

“You got company,” he said.

She turned and saw two men in suits racing down the alley toward her. Gregory’s security team. Panic spiked through her.

The biker tossed his cigarette to the ground and kicked it out.

“You sure about this, Princess?”

Delilah didn’t even think. “Yes.”

He swung one leg over the bike and held out a hand.

“Then hold on.”

She took it.

The moment her fingers touched his, something shifted. He pulled her onto the back of the Harley like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her dress bunched awkwardly around her thighs, and her bare legs pressed against the leather seat. She barely had time to wrap her arms around his waist before the engine roared to life.

The bike peeled away from the curb just as the men in suits reached out to grab her.

Delilah looked back and saw one of them shouting into a walkie-talkie. The other just stood there, eyes cold and furious, watching the bike disappear into the city.

They were going to come after her.

She didn’t care.

Wind whipped through her hair as they tore down the street. The biker leaned into the curves like he owned the road, weaving through traffic, the Harley growling beneath them. Delilah’s heart pounded in sync with the bike’s engine. Her hands clutched the fabric of his jacket, her cheek pressing against his back as adrenaline turned into something else.

Something like freedom.

She didn’t even know his name.

They rode for miles, out of downtown, past blinking lights and towering buildings, until the city began to thin out into worn streets and forgotten neighborhoods. Eventually, he slowed down and pulled off onto a gravel side road, parking under the shade of an overgrown tree.

Delilah blinked, disoriented. Her legs trembled as she climbed off the bike.

The biker turned to look at her, pulling off his helmet.

He was… unfairly attractive. Strong jawline, olive skin, thick brows, lashes too long for a man. His eyes were dark, unreadable. His lips curved into something between a smirk and a question.

“Wanna tell me what the hell that was about?” he asked.

Delilah opened her mouth. Closed it.

What could she say? Hi, I was about to marry a man twice my age with a temper problem and a polished reputation, and then I found out he might be hurting other people, not just me?

She shook her head.

“I just needed to get out. You saved me. Thank you.”

He nodded, studying her.

“You got a name?”

“Delilah.”

A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. “Of course it is.”

She frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Biblical. Dangerous women. You know.” He jerked his head toward the bike. “I’m Jaxon. Most people call me Burn.”

“Burn?” she repeated.

He shrugged. “Nickname. Story for another time.”

Delilah looked down at her filthy dress, torn hem, smudged makeup. She must’ve looked ridiculous. Like some runaway Barbie bride who took a wrong turn out of a fairytale.

“You really just picked up a random girl in a wedding dress without asking any questions?” she asked.

Jaxon looked at her like it was obvious.

“You ran like you were being hunted. Figured asking could wait.”

She nodded slowly, not knowing what to say.

Silence fell between them.

She didn’t know where they were. She didn’t know what came next. All she knew was that going back wasn’t an option—and this biker with his calm voice and sharp eyes might be the only person standing between her and the life she just escaped.

Jaxon leaned against the bike, arms crossed.

“You got somewhere to go?”

Delilah hesitated. “No.”

“Someone you can call?”

Another pause.

“No.”

His jaw flexed. Then he reached into his jacket, pulled out a set of keys, and tossed them in the air before catching them again.

“I got a place not far from here. It’s not fancy. Might smell like oil and regret. But it’s safe.”

She looked at him.

“Why are you helping me?”

Jaxon’s gaze was steady.

“Because I’ve been on the run before, too. And I know what it looks like when someone finally breaks.”

Delilah swallowed hard.

She didn’t trust easily. But something about him felt real. Solid.

Maybe this was stupid. Maybe it was crazy. Maybe this was the beginning of an entirely new kind of danger.

But when he got back on the bike and looked at her, waiting—

She climbed on again without hesitation.

“Good,” Jaxon muttered. “You learn fast.”

The engine rumbled to life again, and the world blurred around them as they sped into the unknown.

But this time, Delilah didn’t look back.

And somewhere behind her, in a luxury suite dripping in roses and rage, Gregory Alcott was making a call.

“Find her,” he said into the phone, voice like ice. “I don’t care how. I don’t care what it costs. Bring. Her. Back.”