The biker’s captive bride

Chapter2. Penthouse

The room they had shoved Gwen into was nothing like she expected.

It wasn’t a cell, nor a dungeon. No chains hung from the walls, no dark corners dripping with menace. Instead, it was large, immaculate, and far too beautiful for a captive. A penthouse suite with high ceilings, velvet drapes spilling onto gleaming marble floors, and a bed so wide it could swallow her whole.

But beauty was no comfort when terror pressed against her ribs like a vice.

Gwen sat timidly on the edge of the bed, fists clutched around the folds of her ruined wedding dress. The white silk was torn, smudged with dust from the struggle. Her veil was gone, hair tangled and spilling across her shoulders. Every sound outside the door, every murmur of boots, every faint rumble of motorcycles below, made her pulse spike.

What do they want with me?

The question circled endlessly in her head.

Her throat ached from the scream she had let out at the church. She had thought someone would stop him, thought someone would come to her aid. But no one had. Not even Liam. Especially not Liam.

The memory sliced through her like glass. Liam had pulled her in front of him like a shield, using her body to protect his own. Her fiancé. The man who had promised to love her. The man who should have fought for her.

Instead, he had hidden behind her.

Tears burned at her eyes, but she blinked them away. She refused to cry. Not here. Not where her tears would only feed her captor’s cruelty.

—

Damien stood at the far end of the penthouse, alone in his own room, eyes locked on the sprawling city skyline. From this high up, the lights blurred together, a living sea of gold and fire. But the sight gave him no peace.

Nothing ever did.

His hand tightened around the glass of wine he hadn’t touched. His jaw clenched as his thoughts returned, as they always did, to the weight that crushed his chest.

His brother. Gone.

The one person who had stood at his side, who had understood him when the rest of the world recoiled in fear. Dead because of Marcus. That bastard. That coward who had fired the bullet and fled like a rat, leaving blood on the ground and a hole in Damien’s world.

He would have ended Marcus in the church, right there in front of God and everyone, if he had seen him. He would have put a bullet straight between his eyes. But Marcus had slipped through his fingers.

Now, Damien’s only consolation was the woman in the next room. Marcus’s sister. The bride who had walked down the aisle only to be dragged into hell.

He smirked, though the expression was cruel. Marcus’s blood might not be on his hands yet, but Marcus would pay in screams — his sister’s screams.

His gaze softened briefly as another face drifted into his thoughts. His father. Ten years gone, murdered in a mystery he still hadn’t pierced. The betrayal had festered for a decade. And his poor mother, broken, lonely, forced to leave for France with family so she wouldn’t crumble under grief.

And now his brother too.

A single tear slipped unbidden down Damien’s cheek. He caught it with the back of his hand, his jaw tightening until the muscle ached.

If revenge was the only fire keeping him alive, then he would stoke it until it burned the world down.

Marcus would die. His family would suffer. And Gwen… Gwen would learn what it meant to belong to the devil.

Damien set the untouched wine down and strode from his room.

—

Across the city, Marcus sat in the shadows of his hideout, pacing. His phone burned in his hand. Liam’s voice still echoed in his ear, sharp, cold, threatening.

“Find her. Find Gwen, or everything between us is over. Every deal, every dime, every promise. You’ll be left with nothing.”

Marcus cursed under his breath, shoving a hand through his hair. He hadn’t expected Damien to strike so boldly, hadn’t thought he’d have the guts to crash the wedding. Now Gwen was gone, and Liam’s fury was something he couldn’t afford. Business was all he had left and Gwen was the key.

But Gwen was gone.

And Marcus knew Damien well enough to understand, his sister’s life was a bargaining chip Damien would bleed dry.

—

Back in the penthouse, the silence stretched too long.

Gwen sat rigid on the bed, her heart hammering as the door finally creaked open.

He stepped in.

Damien filled the doorway, his presence heavier than any chain. The air thickened as his eyes landed on her, sweeping slowly from the top of her tangled hair to the hem of her ruined gown.

Gwen instinctively pushed farther back on the mattress, her back hitting the carved headboard. Her pulse throbbed in her throat.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply looked at her like a tiger studying his prey, like a man deciding which piece to bite into first. His eyes were unreadable, black pools that promised no mercy.

And then, finally, he spoke.

One word.

“Strip.”

The word cracked like a whip through the room, sinking straight into her bones.

Her breath hitched, her stomach knotting in terror. She shook her head, clutching the folds of her dress tighter against her body as if silk could shield her from the storm standing before her.

But Damien didn’t move. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply waited, the faintest curl of a smirk at his lips, as if he knew that resistance would only make her break harder.

The word still hung in the air, a command, a promise, a threat.