Page 14 of Her Dirty Biker (Savage Kings MC #3)

Chapter fourteen

Willow

Everything hurts. My wrists sting from the plastic zip ties. My skin is sticky with sweat, grime, and fear. My throat is dry, lips cracked. My legs still feel shaky even though I’m not the one walking. My hero is carrying me.

His arms are solid around me. Protective. Safe. Like nothing and no one can get to me while I’m here. I bury my face into his cut, breathing in leather, motor oil, and the comfort of him.

“I’ve got you, little fox,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “You’re safe now. You’re okay.”

I clutch his shoulders, hands trembling, my heart thudding like it doesn’t believe him yet. “I was so scared.”

His jaw tightens against my hair. “I know, baby. I never should’ve left you.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should’ve. ” His voice cracks. “I’ll never make that mistake again.”

The next time I blink, we’re pulling through an unfamiliar gate. It must be their clubhouse, not another safehouse. Not a hidden cabin in the woods. There are bikes lined up outside and lights glowing through smoky windows.

The moment Diesel carries me through the front door, the room goes silent.

All conversation drops. Laughter fades. Music cuts to background noise as every Savage King inside turns to look at us.

Women in tiny shorts and low-cut tops draped across couches and laps. One of them actually has her tongue in a guy’s ear. Another licks her lips when she sees Diesel.

Great.

I freeze, shrinking into Diesel’s chest.

His grip tightens instantly, and he doesn’t stop walking until we’re past the main lounge and into the hallway. I hear chairs scraping, footsteps following. Voices—Havoc, Rebel, Jinx, even Princess—all coming closer.

But Diesel doesn’t let me go. He turns toward them, still holding me, and his voice drops low and fierce.

“She is mine.” Three words that fly like a goddamn bullet.

Nobody says a word.

“She’s not a club girl,” he adds, looking directly at the nearest girl, who’s frozen mid-step in her heels. “You don’t look at her. You don’t talk to her. And you sure as fuck don’t touch her.”

I feel the room shift around us. Eyes narrowing. Respect snapping into place. Even the flirty grins disappear.

Princess steps forward first, expression soft. “Hey, Willow. You okay?”

I nod, though my throat’s too tight to speak. Diesel finally lets me down, gently, like I’m breakable, and keeps one possessive arm around my waist.

Rebel claps Diesel on the back. “We got Guardrail. Or what’s left of him. You wanna be there when we finish it?”

Diesel’s eyes go dark, but he looks down at me before answering. “No.”

Jinx offers me a water bottle. “You need anything else, dollface?”

“I’m okay,” I manage, voice hoarse.

More people drift in—checking on me, asking questions, offering food or clothes or a shower. One guy I don’t know tries to flirt.

“You look good for a girl who got kidnapped,” he says with a smirk. “What do you say? Dance with me?”

Before I can respond, Diesel steps in front of me, broad chest blocking my view.

“She’s not dancing with anyone,” he growls.

Alright, alright,” the guy mutters, backing off with hands raised. “Didn’t know she was claimed.”

Diesel turns back toward me, jaw still tight. “You okay?”

I nod again, but my heart is pounding. Everyone here saw the way he said it. The way he meant it. Claimed.

I should hate that word. It should make me feel like property. Like something he just grabbed off the shelf and slapped a sticker on.

But instead? It makes something deep in my chest flutter. Makes my knees feel unsteady in a totally different way.

Because I don’t want to be anyone’s, I want to be his .

Later, after the crowd thins and most of the club settles back into their usual late-night chaos, Diesel pulls me into his room.

The door shuts, the noise fades, and we’re alone. He turns to face me, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“I should’ve taken you back to the safehouse,” he says. “I just… I needed you close. I needed them to see you.”

I step toward him. “See me how?”

He swallows hard. “As mine.”

The heat that rolls through me isn’t fear or discomfort or shame—it’s fire. White-hot, unignorable fire.

“Do you mean that?” I whisper.

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”

“You don’t have to take care of me, Diesel. I know I’ve made a mess of everything—”

He grabs my hand and brings it to his chest. “Stop. You didn’t make anything messy. I was already halfway gone the second I saw you in that casino. You were never just some girl to me.”

“I don’t belong in this world.”

“You belong in my world.”

There’s no bravado in his voice. No fake MC swagger. Just truth. Just him.

I let him pull me in. Let him wrap his arms around me again. My cheek rests on his chest, and for the first time since they took me, I feel safe and seen.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“Starving.”

He grins. “Come on, little fox. Let’s raid the kitchen before one of the prospects eats all the good shit.”

I laugh, and for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s real.