Page 1 of Her Obsessed Biker (Savage Kings MC #8)

Piper

I left everything I’ve ever known…for this?

I’d only ever seen Jackson Ridge on a faded map, so I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

This place is nothing more than dusty roads, tired buildings, and one long stretch of cracked pavement that leads straight to the bar at the edge of town.

The Black Crown . That’s what the crooked sign says above the door, its letters half-lit and flickering like they’re struggling to stay alive.

A rusted chopper is welded to the damn roof.

Bullet holes pepper the weathered siding like someone used the place for target practice and never got around to fixing it.

The windows are tinted too dark to see inside.

The whole building hums with a kind of masculine energy that dares anyone to step closer.

I should turn around. My instincts scream it. But instinct didn’t bring me here.

Desperation did.

The Black Crown is the only lead I have. Somewhere behind its smoke-stained walls is a man I know only by his club name…Wolf. The name of a man who wrote my mother a love letter two decades ago. The name my “dad” accidentally muttered in a drunken rage one night when he called me a bastard.

My hands tremble as I grip the handle and push the door open.

The scent hits first—whiskey, smoke, and raw testosterone.

The air feels thick enough to chew. Loud voices, the kind that bark and snap and demand attention, echo off the walls, along with laughter that doesn’t sound friendly.

Boots thud against old wood floors. And music, rough and loud, fights to dominate the chaos.

Some Lynyrd Skynyrd track, scratchy and mean.

The place is packed.

Men with leather cuts and hard eyes lounge around pool tables and barstools, some with tattoos that climb up their necks like snakes. Women in barely there shorts drape themselves over the men like accessories. It’s loud. It’s wild.

And then, suddenly, it’s not.

Silence sweeps the room like someone hit the mute button. Eyes swing to me, one by one. Every conversation dies mid-sentence. Every movement halts. I might as well have walked in stark naked.

Though, given what the other women are wearing, maybe I’d blend in better that way. I’m a bit too covered up in my jeans and soft pink T-shirt. Too innocent-looking for this place.

I straighten my spine.

Don’t flinch. Don’t show fear.

I walk forward like I belong here. Like I haven’t just stepped into the lions’ den.

The bartender watches me approach. He’s massive, bald head, arms like tree trunks, a permanent scowl etched into his face. Definitely not the chatty type.

I slide onto a barstool, aware of every stare burning into my skin. “Whatever you’ve got on tap,” I say, forcing the words past my dry throat.

He nods once and turns away. I release a shaky breath.

This is not how I pictured this going. My plan was simple: get in, start small, make conversation, ask about “Wolf” without making it obvious. But nothing about this place feels simple.

My beer arrives. It looks like motor oil in a glass. I take a sip and nearly choke.

It burns like hell going down, and I do everything I can not to cough. Or puke. Or give away the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing.

Conversations have resumed, but quieter now. Warier. Like the room itself is waiting to see what I’ll do next.

I don’t belong here. I can feel it in every muscle of my body.

But I didn’t come all this way to run scared.

I lift the glass again, preparing to brave another sip, when I feel it. That unmistakable sensation of being watched. Not like the curious stares from earlier. This one is different. Sharper. Heavier. It slides over my skin like a blade pressed flat to my throat.

I look up.

In the darkest corner of the bar, half-shadowed and unmoving, sits a man. Big. Broad. Still as stone.

I can’t make out much, just the glint of metal on leather, the rigid set of his shoulders, the whiskey glass in one hand.

And those eyes. They lock on mine, and my breath catches.

They’re dark. Intense. Burning with something dangerous. Possessive. They pin me in place and strip me bare without ever moving from the shadows.

My heart trips, thuds hard against my ribs. I shouldn’t be reacting like this, but my body doesn’t listen to reason.

Heat rushes low in my belly. Goose bumps prick up my arms. From one look. One damn look.

I force myself to look away, to break the spell, and the moment my eyes drop, something crashes into my side. I hear the sound of glass shattering before I feel the cold liquid soaking through my shirt.

I jump back with a gasp, blinking out of the daze.

A boy—not a man, not yet—scrambles to collect the broken pieces of the glass he just dropped. He’s lanky, fresh-faced, too clean for a place like this.

He mumbles apologies, eyes wide, hands shaking.

“It’s fine,” I tell him quickly, brushing glass from my lap. He’s clearly panicked, and I get the sense he’s low on the totem pole. Maybe a prospect? A wannabe?

He nods and gathers the shards in his shirt, backing away fast. I watch him duck into a side hallway near the back. The door swings shut behind him.

I don’t know what possesses me, maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s the tension still clawing at my nerves, but I slide off the stool and follow him.

I’m not here to play it safe. And maybe the kid knows something.

Or maybe I’m about to walk straight into something I won’t come back from.

The hallway is dimly lit, quiet except for the muffled bass of music vibrating through the walls.

A single door creaks open to the outside, and I push through it without stopping to think.

It leads to a narrow alley, lined with stained brick and the lingering stench of motor oil and cigarette smoke.

A crooked streetlamp flickers overhead, casting yellow light over a rusted dumpster where the boy is carefully dumping glass shards into a black trash bag.

He startles when he sees me, straightening like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

“I’m sorry again about the drink,” he says quickly, his voice coming out a little too high, a little too nervous.

I wave it off. “Really, it’s fine. No harm done.”

He relaxes a fraction, wiping his palms on his jeans. Up close, he looks even younger. Couldn’t be more than eighteen. Baby-faced, with shaggy brown hair and a hopeful kind of innocence.

I lean against the wall, trying to appear casual. “You work here?”

He nods. “Sort of. On and off. Just during breaks from school mostly. Cleaning up, doing errands. That kind of thing.”

“So…you’re not part of the club?”

His shoulders square a little. “Not yet. But I’m hoping to prospect soon. Been hanging around for almost two years now.”

There’s pride in his voice. Like he’s earned it.

“I take it you like it here,” I say, eyebrows raised.

His eyes light up. “Hell yeah. The guys here? They’re rough, yeah, but they’re solid. Like, really solid. They look out for each other. You do right by them, they’ll go to war for you. It’s not just patches and bikes, it’s family. Loyalty. Brotherhood.”

I smile politely, though I’m not sure I believe him. I’ve seen plenty of men who wear loyalty like a mask. My dad—stepdad—used to say loyalty meant silence. Obedience. Fear.

But I keep that buried. I need information, not an argument.

“Sounds…intense,” I say lightly. “Hey, maybe you could help me with something.”

He tilts his head, curious.

“I’m looking for someone. A man. I don’t have much to go on, just a name—Wolf. He’d be in his fifties, maybe older. You ever heard of—”

“Who the hell are you?” The deep voice cuts through the alley like a blade through silk.

The kid flinches and practically jumps back. My heart slams into my ribs as I turn toward the voice.

And there he is. The man from the bar.

Only now, he’s not shrouded in shadows. He’s here. In full view. And holy hell, up close, he’s even more dangerous-looking.

He’s at least six-four. Broad chest, thick arms, ink crawling from beneath the sleeves of his cut.

Black tee stretched tight over muscle. A thick beard frames a mouth made for sin, and his eyes…

those eyes. Sharp, dark, and unrelenting.

They pin me where I stand like he’s sizing me up for the kill or the taking. I can’t tell which.

He moves like a soldier. Controlled, coiled, every step echoing with authority. His presence fills the alley like smoke, creeping into my lungs, my bloodstream, my bones. My pulse trips over itself.

Every instinct screams danger. Every nerve sings for more.

The heat in my belly explodes back to life, now tenfold. I hate how my body reacts to him, how my breath catches, how my legs feel suddenly shaky.

This man is chaos wrapped in leather and heat. And he’s looking at me like I just became his problem.

Or his prey.

Maybe both.

The boy doesn’t say a word, just dips his head and backs away, his sneakers scraping quietly across the concrete as he disappears down the alley, like he knows better than to be caught in whatever’s about to happen.

And then I’m alone.

With him.

The man with the molten-dark eyes and thundercloud presence. The one who makes my skin feel too tight and my heartbeat feel like a ticking bomb in my chest.

He steps closer, closing the space between us with slow, deliberate movements that send a chill racing up my spine. His shadow falls over me. Heavy. Inescapable.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” he says, voice low and rough like gravel soaked in whiskey. “Who the hell are you, and what do you want?”

There’s no warmth in his tone. No flirtation. Just hard-edged suspicion wrapped in dominance.

I freeze.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. I don’t know how to lie to a man like him. Not when his eyes feel like X-rays, burning right through whatever walls I’ve managed to build.

Still, I try.

“I—I’m just visiting,” I manage to say, forcing a light shrug. “Passing through town. Stopped in for a drink, that’s all.”

His gaze sharpens. His lips twitch, barely, but it’s not amusement. It’s a warning. The kind of smile that says I see you, and I don’t like what I see.

“Try again,” he says, voice clipped. “This isn’t the kind of bar people just ‘stop in’ to. You don’t belong here. Everyone inside knows it. So how about you quit wasting my time?”

I swallow, hard. My palms are damp, and my brain races for something, anything that’ll get me out of this moment.

I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t say I’m looking for a man called Wolf, who might be my father, who might have left my mother brokenhearted with nothing more than a scrawled signature on a love letter.

I can’t tell him I ran from the only life I’ve ever known because the man who raised me turned out to be a monster.

So I blurt out the first thing I can think of.

“I—I’m here for the Swim Lake Willowmere Challenge.”