I liked to keep to myself. Always had. My life was simple—hunt, trade, sell just enough to keep the local bastards off my back, and stay far away from people who looked like trouble.

And right now? Trouble was standing in front of me, wearing four-inch heels and a scowl that could melt paint off a barn.

Madeleine LaRue. Even her name sounded like something expensive. The kinda name that belonged in a penthouse somewhere, not stuck in the middle of Georgia, waving down strangers like she had a damn death wish.

I exhaled, slow and measured, already regretting this whole situation. I shoulda just started my bike and rode off when I saw her marching across the lot, all legs and attitude, but something made me wait. Maybe curiosity. Maybe stupidity. Probably both.

Now, she was planting herself in front of me like a damn roadblock, her designer purse hanging off one wrist like an afterthought.

"Ya gonna move, princess?" I asked, arching a brow.

Her arms crossed over her chest, pushing up against that tiny little top like she thought she could intimidate me. "Not until you agree to take me."

I let out a dry chuckle, digging my boot into the gravel. "You got a death wish, or just bad judgment?"

She huffed, tossing her hair over one shoulder. "Oh, please. Like I'd be safer sitting around here, waiting for some toothless hillbilly to come sniffing around."

I smirked, scratching at my beard. "Ya do realize I'm one of those hillbillies, right?"

She gave me a once-over, eyes flicking over my worn-out leather jacket, the scuffed-up boots, the knife strapped to my thigh. "You've got some teeth. That's a start."

I shook my head, fighting back a laugh. Lord, this woman had a mouth on her. I should walk away. Leave her to her own damn devices. But when I glanced toward the gas station, I noticed a couple of locals eyeing Madeleine like she was fresh meat. They weren't just looking—they were planning.

Yeah. This was a bad situation waiting to happen.

I muttered a curse under my breath and swung a leg over my bike. "Get on."

Madeleine blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Changed my mind." I jerked my chin toward the gas station. "Unless ya'd rather hang 'round and see what happens when they get brave."

She followed my gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line when she saw the way the men were watching her. With a small shudder, she turned back to me. "Fine. But if you kidnap me, just know that millions of people will come looking for me."

I snorted. "Yeah? Well, tell 'em to send me a thank-you card when they find out what a pain in the ass ya are."

Before she could argue, I reached behind me and grabbed a spare helmet, holding it out. "Put this on."

She wrinkled her nose. "Do you know how much bacteria is in a used helmet?"

"Do ya know how much brain matter is on the pavement when someone flies off a bike?"

She paled. "Fine."

With a dramatic sigh, she slipped the helmet on and climbed onto the bike behind me, her arms hovering awkwardly at her sides.

I rolled my eyes. "Ain't gotta be shy, princess. Wrap 'em around me, or you'll be eatin' dirt the second I hit the gas."

She hesitated, then, with a huff, looped her arms around my waist. It was stiff and reluctant, like touching me might physically hurt her.

I smirked. "Relax. I don't bite."

"Good," she muttered. "I just had my vaccines updated."

With a chuckle, I revved the engine, feeling her grip tighten. "Hold on tight, sweetheart."

And with that, we shot forward, tearing down the road and leaving that sorry little airstrip behind.

"What's your name, old man?" She asked as soon as we left.

"Daryl." I grumbled at her choice of words. Old. "Daryl Dixon."

The road stretched ahead, long and winding. The air was thick with the scent of pine and dirt, the sky burning orange as the sun started its slow descent. I felt the way Madeleine tensed behind me, like she wasn't sure whether to trust me or keep plotting her escape. Her grip was tight at first, like she was afraid she'd go flying off if she let go, but after a few miles, she relaxed. Just a little.

Didn't stop her from grumbling every few minutes, though. Something about the wind messing up her hair. As if I gave a damn.

We rode in silence for a long while, the hum of the engine the only sound between us. The highway stretched ahead, miles of cracked asphalt and overgrown brush, the occasional abandoned car rusting away on the side of the road. The deeper we got into the backroads, the further we were from anything she'd recognize. The realization musta hit her at some point because she leaned in closer and shouted over the wind, "Where exactly are we going?"

"Someplace with less creeps starin' at ya like a meal," I called back.

"That's not an answer!"

I smirked, giving the throttle a little more gas. She let out a yelp, her grip tightening around my waist.

"You're insane!" she shouted.

"Yeah, well, yer the one who jumped in front of my bike," I reminded her. "So what's that make ya?"

She didn't have a comeback for that. Instead, she just muttered something under her breath and rested her forehead against my back, probably planning all the ways she was gonna make my life hell once we got wherever we were going.

I shoulda been worried about what I'd just gotten myself into. About what kind of mess this woman was about to bring down on my head.

But instead, all I could think was—

I was supposed to be sipping a matcha latte at thirty thousand feet, scrolling through my notifications while my private jet carried me effortlessly toward California.

I stood beside the jet, parked on a sad little airstrip that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the dinosaurs roamed the earth. My hot pink luggage sat at my feet, looking as out of place as I felt. The pilot was talking about “engine failure” and “waiting for a mechanic” or something equally boring. I stared at my phone screen, tapping at it like I could force the little bars to appear. Nothing. Just the cold, heartless words: No Service. I was officially stranded.

The pilot had explained the situation in words I barely understood—something about engine failure, a mechanic on the way, and a lot of apologetic shrugs. I had stopped listening after he said “a few hours” because, excuse me, I did not have a few hours.

This was an emergency.

Not a real emergency, obviously, but still. I had a party in LA to get to. I had content to post. I had plans—none of which involved sweating through my Dior crop top and standing on a baked runway in the middle of Where-the-Hell-Am-I, Georgia.

I turned to my assistant, Kelsey, who looked just as lost as I felt. “Tell me you have service,” I pleaded.

She held up her phone helplessly. Zero bars.

I sighed dramatically. “This can’t be happening.”

“Maybe we should wait here?” she suggested. “The pilot said—”

I waved her off. Absolutely not. I wasn’t about to sit around while my skin dried out in the swampy heat. There had to be some way to get out of this place.

I spun in a slow circle, scanning the landscape for any sign of civilization. Nothing but trees, cracked pavement, and a tiny gas station in the distance. I was about to give up hope when I spotted him.

Leaning against a motorcycle near the gas station, he looked like something out of a post-apocalyptic survival movie—the kind where the brooding antihero does illegal things but somehow still has women lining up to fix him. Tall, broad, and rugged, with dark long hair that nearly touched his shoulder and a beard that was more scruff than style. Wearing a sleeveless dark gray shirt with a leather vest, his bare arms were crossed, showing off muscular biceps, and he had the kind of presence that made it clear he didn’t like people. Especially not ones like me.

And beside him? A black motorcycle—sleek, powerful, and completely at odds with the dusty, run-down gas station.

Right now, that made him my best option.

I straightened, adjusting my sunglasses. Bingo.

“He can take me,” I decided.

Kelsey blinked. “What?”

“Him.” I nodded toward Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding. “He’s my ride.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Madeleine, you don’t even know him.”

I rolled my eyes. “So? He has a bike. I need a ride. Problem solved.”

Before she could protest, I grabbed my purse, decided to leave my suitcase, and strutted across the lot, my Louboutins clicking against the pavement.

“Excuse me!”

He didn’t even look up.

“Hey, you,” I tried again, stepping closer. “Mr. Biker Guy.”

The man still didn’t move as I approached, but his blue eyes flicked to me, scanning me from head to toe like he was trying to decide if I was real or just a terrible mirage.

I stopped in front of him, adjusting my purse strap. “Hey there.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No.”

I frowned. “Excuse me?”

“No,” he repeated. “Whatever you’re about to ask, the answer’s no.”

I blinked. Rude.

“You don’t even know what I’m asking.” I pointed out.

“Don’t gotta,” he drawled, his voice deep and slow like thick molasses. “I know trouble when I see it.”

I put a manicured hand on my hip. “And what does that mean?”

He exhaled, slow and measured, like he already regretted this conversation. “It means I don’t give rides to spoiled little princesses who’d probably scream if they got a little dirt on their fancy shoes.”

My mouth fell open. “First of all—these are Louboutins.”

His lips twitched. “Uh-huh.”

“Second of all, I am not a spoiled princess.”

He just gave me a look. The kind that made it very clear he didn’t believe me.

Okay, fine—maybe I was. But that wasn’t the point.

I forced my sweetest smile. “Listen, you can take me anywhere with an airport and cell service. I’ll pay you.”

“No.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Five hundred.”

“No.”

“Two thousand.”

His lip twitched. “Darlin’, I wouldn’t haul your fancy ass across town for twenty.”

I huffed. “Five thousand.”

At that, his jaw clenched, but his eyes flashed with something dangerously close to amusement. Like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or entertained.

But he still shook his head. “Not interested.”

I threw up my hands. “Why?”

He sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Look, lady—”

“Madeleine.”

He stepped closer, looming over me with an air of casual menace. “Madeleine.” He said my name like it exhausted him. “I don’t do chauffeuring. Especially not for—” He waved vaguely at me. “Whatever you are.”

I swallowed. Okay. Maybe he was a little intimidating. But I was not backing down.

“Fine,” I said. “Then how ‘bout this—you take me where I need to go, and in return, you get to say you helped Madeleine LaRue.”

His expression didn’t change. “Who?”

I blinked. “Seriously?”

He gave a slow shrug, like he genuinely didn’t care. “Ain’t got no clue who you are.”

Unbelievable.

I huffed. Wow. This man really didn’t know who I was.

Madeleine LaRue. Millionaire influencer. Social media darling. Future reality TV star.

I wasn’t used to people not knowing me. I wasn’t used to people telling me no. And I definitely wasn’t used to rugged bikers looking at me like I was some kind of ridiculous nuisance.

I planted my feet, refusing to be dismissed. “You’re seriously turning down five grand?”

His gaze swept over me again, slow and assessing. “Five grand ain’t worth that much headache.”

I gasped. “I am not a headache!”

He just smirked, pushing off the pump and heading toward his bike like the conversation was over.

I clenched my jaw. “Okay. New offer. You take me where I need to go, and I promise you’ll never have to see me again.”

He turned around and studied me for a long moment, like he was debating whether it was worth the trouble. Then he exhaled, shaking his head.

“Ain’t happenin’, princess.”

And with that, he turned back to his bike, clearly done with me.

Oh, hell no.

This man was gonna take me where I needed to go, whether he liked it or not. ‘Cause I was not about to spend the next several hours trapped in the middle of nowhere with no air-conditioning, no cell service, and no escape plan.

I wasn’t leaving without a fight.