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

Chapter three

Willow

I don’t know what I expected a biker club’s safehouse to look like. Maybe something grimy. Windowless. Chains on the walls. A torture table in the corner.

What I didn’t expect was a small, square cabin with creaky hardwood floors, a faded leather couch, and a lingering scent of cedar, motor oil, and the cologne Diesel wears that clings to the walls like heat.

It smells like him in here.

It feels like him.

Dangerous. Clean-cut chaos, wrapped in a tall, muscled body with eyes that see through lies and skin that makes my fingers itch to touch.

I shouldn’t be attracted to him. I know that.

He’s too old, too intense, too close to the things I’ve been trying to avoid my entire life.

But here I am, locked in a cabin with him. Watching the way his broad shoulders stretch his black tee as he paces. Feeling the weight of his stare when he thinks I’m not looking. Noticing the flex of his tattooed forearms when he grips the counter, knuckles pale, jaw set.

He hasn’t touched me.

I would let him, though, and that scares me almost more than any gang or cartel threat ever could.

“So.” His voice cuts through my thoughts like a hot knife through butter. “You said you’d tell me what you heard.”

He leans back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, muscles bunching beneath ink and cotton. God. It’s like gravity pulls me toward him. I force my gaze to his boots.

“I didn’t catch much,” I start, sitting on the edge of the worn couch. “I was serving drinks to a high-stakes table in the back. I’m new, so I keep my head down. Don’t ask questions. Don’t get involved.”

Diesel doesn’t speak. Just watches.

“The guy with the greasy ponytail—”

“Guardrail,” he supplies, voice rough.

“Well, he was whispering to some guy in a suit. Slick. Expensive. Probably had a mirror in his pocket to admire himself between sentences.”

Diesel’s lips twitch. Almost a smile. Almost.

“They didn’t notice me. I was wiping the table beside them. It sounded like something big was about to happen soon. Something about a shipment. I heard ‘clubhouse’ and ‘Savage Kings will pay.’ That’s it. Then he saw me.”

I shiver at the memory of Guardrail’s smirk—the way his eyes dragged down my body like a roach crawling over silk.

“Later, he cornered me in the parking lot and asked me to come to the party. Grabbed my arm. I was going to lie, say I had somewhere to be, when you showed up.”

Diesel’s jaw flexes. “He touched you?”

“Not for long.”

That muscle in his cheek ticks again. “He won’t do it again.”

“Didn’t realize you were my knight in shining ink.”

“I’m not your anything,” he says gruffly.

But his eyes say otherwise. They burn like a fuse—one spark away from a full-blown explosion.

I stand and cross to the window, the blinds half-drawn. Outside, the sun filters through the tall pine trees, casting long shadows across the yard. There’s a stillness here I hadn’t noticed before. The kind that makes your skin itch.

“I’m not built for this,” I murmur.

“For what?”

“Being a pawn in some biker turf war.”

“You’re not a pawn.” His voice is closer now. “You’re a witness, and until I’m sure you’re safe, you’re under my protection.”

I turn around. He’s standing just a few feet away, tall and immovable as a mountain.

His eyes drop to my lips.

And mine? Mine are fucking traitors .

They part. Just slightly. Just enough to let in air and want.

My voice is barely a whisper. “You’re not really good at pretending you don’t want me.”

His throat bobs. “This isn’t about want.”

“No?” I step closer. “So when I called you Daddy last night, that did nothing for you?”

His nostrils flare.

“You shouldn’t say shit like that,” he growls.

“Why not?”

“Because I will spank you if I hear you say it to anyone else.”

I inhale, the sound sharp and involuntary.

Then I laugh—quiet, shaky, breathless. “I don’t think that would really be a punishment.”

He groans under his breath and steps back like he’s physically yanking himself out of the moment.

“You need a shower. There’s one down the hall. Towels are under the sink.”

“Running from me already?” I ask, teasing.

He doesn’t answer. Just storms out onto the porch and slams the door behind him.

The water’s hot and a little too hard, the pressure borderline assault, but it does the job. I scrub the casino sweat and last night’s fear off my skin and try not to replay that moment—his voice low and dangerous, the word spank rumbling from his chest like a goddamn promise.

It’s useless.

I dry off and wrap myself in one of his shirts I found in the hall closet—big, soft, black cotton that swallows me whole. At least, I assume it’s his. I guess it could be anyone's.

When I step out, he’s still outside. I can see him through the window, crouched by his bike, checking something on the engine, like it’s easier than facing me.

Good. Gives me time to snoop.

I wander through the cabin. It’s an open concept, with dark wood and no personal touches. Just a coffee maker, a battered sofa, and a gun tucked under the couch cushion.

Classy.

His bag’s by the door, half-zipped. Inside: a knife, a burner phone, a patch kit, and an extra set of dog tags.

I pause, brushing my fingers over the metal.

S. DIESEL TURNER. USMC. O NEG. CATHOLIC.

Of course, he was military. It explains a lot. The posture. The silence. The shadows in his eyes. I let the tag drop and close the bag.

When the door opens behind me, I jump.

Diesel steps inside, eyes tracking the oversized shirt clinging to my damp skin like it’s painted on. His jaw clenches.

“Shower help?”

“Not even a little.”

He exhales hard. Runs a hand through his hair, ruffling the dark strands.

“You shouldn’t wear my clothes.”

My heart jumps. It is his shirt. “Why not?”

His eyes drop to my legs, still bare. “Because they don’t cover enough.”

I tilt my head. “Sounds like a you problem.”

“You’re twenty-one,” he growls.

“And you’re what, thirty-two? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Oh no,” I gasp, mock-dramatic. “You’re ancient. Better wheel you into a nursing home.”

He stares.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters.

“I’m curious.”

“Curious girls get hurt.”

“Maybe I like a little pain.”

He rounds on me so fast I suck in a breath.

“Keep talking, Willow. See how long I let you run your mouth before I shut it with my mine.”

My thighs clench. I have no idea if I like a little pain, but he’s so easy to mess with.

His groan sounds like it costs him something. “You need to go lie down.”

“You offering to tuck me in?”

His eyes flick down again and I see it. The crack in his armor. The dark hunger he’s barely holding back.

“No,” he says, voice wrecked. “Because if I tuck you in, I won’t leave that bed.”

My pulse hammers. The room suddenly feels five degrees hotter. My skin tingles. Every inch of me is aware of him—his presence, his strength, the scent of leather and sweat and danger that clings to him like sin.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper.

“You should be.”

“Why?”

He steps closer. Too close. I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes. His fingers graze my cheek.

“You’re a good girl, Willow. But you keep poking the wolf.”

I smile, slow and sure. “Maybe I want to see his teeth.”

He stares at me, breathing hard. Then he backs away, voice like gravel. “Sleep, little fox, before you get bitten.”

I don’t sleep, not really.

I lie on the small bed in the back room, staring at the ceiling, my body on fire from the inside out. Every brush of the sheets feels like temptation. Every creak of the floorboards reminds me he’s out there. Awake. Fighting the same thing.

I’m twenty-one. I’ve never been in love. Never even let a man close enough to hurt me. But Diesel? He’s different. He’s not a man you let in. He’s a man who demands it. And something in me… wants to give it to him.

I don’t know if it’s because I feel safe with him or because I don’t. It’s already too late to run. He’s under my skin and in my blood.

I must doze off at some point. I wake up to silence.

Not the kind you get in your average sleepy neighborhood, where birds chirp and sprinklers click on and someone’s dog barks in the distance. This silence is thick, weighted, like it’s holding its breath.

The room is dim with heavy curtains drawn over the single window, filtering in just enough morning light to paint shadows across the wooden floor. The bed is too big for just one person. I’m curled up on one edge, tangled in a sheet that smells faintly of laundry detergent and leather.

I sit up slowly, brushing hair from my face, and listen.

There’s no traffic. No hum of nearby voices. Nothing familiar. Just the low creak of the floorboards beyond the bedroom door.

I remember everything all at once—Guardrail’s hand on my arm, the gleam of that slick guy’s ring, the threat wrapped in hushed tones.

Diesel.

His body between mine and danger. The bite of command in his voice. That dark, unreadable expression as he looked at me like I was something delicate and combustible all at once.

I shiver and climb out of bed, the oversized shirt I wore to sleep slipping off one shoulder.

Tiptoeing into the hallway, I follow the faint sound of metal clinking and the soft hum of music playing low from a speaker somewhere. As I reach the living room, I freeze in the doorway.

Diesel’s in the kitchen.

His back is to me, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black T-shirt as he leans over the counter, pouring coffee. His jeans hang low on his hips, and I can’t stop myself from tracing the inked lines of his arms down to the veins in his hands.

He turns just as I enter, coffee in one hand, eyebrow raised. “Sleep okay?”

His voice is too much for before breakfast.

I nod, but it’s awkward. My bare legs and wrinkled shirt feel like a neon sign under his gaze. I force a smirk. “Didn’t realize safehouses came with barista service.”

Diesel’s mouth twitches, almost smiling. “Don’t get used to it. This one’s special.”

I narrow my eyes. “What makes it special?”

He sets a second mug on the counter in front of me. “You’re in it.”

Goddamn. My stomach flips at the way he says it, and the glint in his eyes tells me he knows exactly what it does to me.

I wrap my hands around the warm mug and blow on the steam. “What now? You babysit me while the big bad biker world keeps spinning?”

His jaw tightens, just enough for me to notice. “This isn’t a game, Willow. You heard something you weren’t supposed to. That puts a target on your back.”

I sip the coffee to hide my expression. It’s good. Of course it is.

“And you? Are you my bodyguard or just the muscle they sent to make sure I don’t talk?”

“I’m the one keeping you alive.”

The room crackles with something unspoken. A dare. A promise.

He steps closer. Not enough to touch me, but enough that I can smell him—motor oil, leather, and something warm that makes my pulse stutter.

“Are you always this intense in the morning?” I tease, needing the distance, the banter, anything to break the tension.

“You always this mouthy before caffeine?”

“Touché.”

He leans against the counter, folding those tattooed arms,

“I don’t trust easily,” I say, quietly. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you’re scared. I know you didn’t sleep much and that you flinched when I opened the door just now.”

I hate how accurate he is. How observant. How calm.

“I’m not used to men like you,” I admit. “Big. Quiet. Broody. The kind who steps in like some dark knight and then disappears before I figure out what he wants.”

His gaze lowers, skimming my legs before settling back on my face. “You don’t wanna know what I want, little fox.”

I swallow hard.

He straightens, brushing past me to set his mug in the sink. As he does, his arm grazes mine, bare skin to bare skin, and I swear my whole body sparks.

It’s not even a touch, not really. Just heat and muscle and the suggestion of what it would feel like if he meant it.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he says, voice low and sure. “But don’t try to lie to me either.”

“Why not?”

He turns, eyes sharp. “Because I’ll always know.”

The words slam into me, cracking something open. I can’t decide if I want to punch him or pull him closer.

Instead, I stare at the floor and mutter, “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“No one ever does,” he replies. “But once you’re in, you don’t get to pretend you’re not.”

I look up sharply. “You think I’m part of this now?”

“You are.”

Simple. Direct. No out.

Diesel walks past me, heading down the hallway. I should let him go, but something in me snaps.

“Why did you come for me?” I call after him. “You didn’t even know me.”

He stops in the doorway and looks back, eyes unreadable.

“Because Guardrail’s a piece of shit,” he says. “I saw the look in your eyes and knew he wasn’t gonna take no for an answer.”

That shuts me up.

He disappears into the bedroom, and I’m left alone with the scent of coffee and the thunder of my heartbeat.

Later, I wander down the hallway, restless. The house is small, consisting of a single long corridor with a living room, kitchen, and two bedrooms. There’s a dusty bookshelf, a broken lamp, and an old leather jacket thrown over the back of the couch that smells like Diesel when I brush against it.

He’s in the spare room—his room, I guess. The door’s half open, and I hear the low rasp of his voice on the phone.

“No, she hasn’t said anything else. Yeah. I’m watching her… Yeah, Rock, I know what’s at stake.”

A pause. Then softer, “No, I’m not getting too attached. Don’t you dare send someone else to watch her.”

He hangs up and steps into the hallway before I can move. We’re inches apart. His hand goes to my arm instinctively, steadying me. My breath catches. He doesn’t pull away.

“Were you listening?” he asks.

“Yes.”

His thumb brushes once over my skin, slow and deliberate. I tremble.

“You’re not a prisoner here, Willow. But if you leave, I can’t keep you safe.”

“Why do you care?”

He exhales, long and rough. “I don’t know.”

Then he does the one thing I wasn’t ready for. He touches my face, just one hand, warm and calloused, cupping my cheek like I’m breakable.

“You should stay in your room tonight,” he says. “I'll bring you some dinner later.”

I nod, but I don’t move. Neither does he.

“Diesel…” I whisper.

He leans in, so close our mouths almost touch. His eyes drop to my lips.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he mutters. “You’re too young. Too soft. Too good.”

“I’m not,” I breathe.

He closes his eyes like it physically hurts to hear me say that. Then, with visible effort, he steps back.

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

And just like that, he turns and walks away, leaving me in the hallway, body flushed, heart pounding, lips aching from the kiss we didn’t share.