The first thing you notice when you open your eyes—head pounding like a damn war drum—is that your left hand feels weird. Heavy.

The second thing you notice is the man lying next to you, half-covered in sheets, all muscle and tattoos and a snore that could probably rattle drywall.

“Shit,” you mutter, blinking against the hangover. “Shit shit shit.”

You sit up slowly, trying not to throw up or die, and look down at your hand. There it is. Plain as sin. A cheap-ass silver wedding band, glittering mockingly in the morning light filtering through the motel curtains.

“No. Nope. Absolutely the hell not.”

You shove the sheets off with a grunt and scramble to the edge of the bed—boots, jeans, bra on the lamp, leather jacket slung over the cracked chair. The room smells like tequila, sweat, and terrible decisions.

Behind you, the human thunderstorm stirs. “You always this loud in the morning, wife?”

Your stomach sinks.

You turn, slow as molasses, to glare at him. Rafe Maddox. President of the Hell Reapers MC. The kind of man who made women bite their lips and lock their doors—depending on whether they wanted trouble or were trying to avoid it.

He stretches like a damn panther, dragging a hand through his dark, messy hair. His voice was sandpaper and smoke. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Don’t ‘sunshine’ me, asshole,” you snap, pointing at the ring. “What the hell did we do last night?”

He smirks, unfazed, eyes trailing over you like he was trying to remember if he should be smug or apologetic. “Well, unless the fake priest and Elvis impersonator at the Whiskey Rose was lying, I think we got hitched somewhere between your third shot and my fourth dare.”

You groan, grabbing your head. “Jesus fucking Christ. I swear to God, if this is your idea of a joke—”

“Relax, princess.” He tosses your bra at you with a lazy flick of the wrist. “We’re legally married. I think. Probably. The guy had a vest that said ‘Ordained-ish’.”

You stare at him, jaw slack. “You’re not funny.”

He grins. “Didn’t say I was.”

There was a beat of silence before you drop your face into your hands, muffling a scream.

You weren’t a relationship girl. You were a one-night-stand, flip-the-bird, drink-you-under-the-table kind of woman. And this—this was not supposed to be how your weekend bender ended.

“You are so getting divorced by noon,” you say.

Rafe chuckles, dragging a cigarette from the nightstand and lighting it like the world wasn't burning down around them. “You sure about that, Mrs. Maddox?”

The worst part?

You weren’t. Not entirely.