Page 1 of Her Possessive Biker (Savage Kings MC #2)
Cassie
I wipe down the tables at Bottles men like him run on it.
“Can I get you something?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a miracle considering the way his presence scrambles my brain.
His mouth lifts at the corner. Not quite a smile, but close. The smallest flicker of amusement changes his whole face, softens it for a breath. Then he leans back in the booth like a man settling onto a throne.
I pour a cup of black coffee and slide it in front of him, trying to ignore the way my fingers shake.
“That happen often?” His voice is low, deliberate, every word heavy like he’s weighing it before letting it go.
“No.” I shrug, aiming for casual. “Jim usually makes me leave before nine. Tonight ran long.”
“Good he does.” A grunt more than a sentence, but it rumbles through him, dark and certain.
The diner is almost empty. Two ranchers linger over pie, chewing slow. A teenage couple shares fries, faces lit up like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Jim scrapes the grill clean, humming off-key. For a moment, everything feels normal .
Except it doesn’t. Not with him here.
Reaper.
Every nerve in me buzzes like a live wire. He feels familiar, though I know we’ve never met. For months I’ve had that prickling sense that someone’s been watching me from the shadows. Probably just nerves. Or maybe the stubborn craving for a protector I pretend I don’t need.
I’m twenty-two, and my romantic résumé is about as pathetic as it sounds. A few stolen kisses under the bleachers in high school, clumsy and forgettable, the kind you try to laugh about later but don’t.
Nothing close to this . Nothing close to the way this man makes me ache for things I’ve only ever read about in secret, cheeks burning while I flipped creased paperbacks. And someone like him? He doesn’t see girls like me . Not like that .
I fuss with a spotless table just to keep my hands busy. His eyes follow me, heavy and hot. There’s possession in his gaze, though he hasn’t moved an inch.
I should be unnerved. And part of me is. The girl raised to flinch at the sound of fists should be terrified of a man like him. But I’m not. With him, I feel safe . And that scares me more than anything.
My father is gone. My mother walked out years ago. My brother’s off in the military, God knows where. What’s left is this little life I’ve patched together. I don’t need a biker tearing it apart. But deep down, a reckless voice whispers that maybe I want it torn apart—if it’s by him.
I turn too quickly with the coffeepot and crash into solid muscle.
“Easy, Angel.” His hands close over my shoulders, big and warm, calloused palms steadying me.
The touch sends a jolt through me, heat and lightning tangled together, and for a second I swear he breathes me in . His gaze drops, quick and sharp, like he’s taking in every inch of me, curves included, before he reins it in.
“S-sorry,” I stammer, my cheeks flaming.
“Nothing to be sorry for.” His thumb brushes the edge of my collarbone. Even that tiny touch makes my skin pebble. He steps away, giving me space, but the imprint of his hands lingers.
I retreat to the counter, my pulse racing. Get it together, Cassie. He’s just a man.
A man who calls you Angel like it belongs to you.
A man who looks like he’s built to fight, built to ruin, built to protect.
A man who makes you feel like maybe you’re worth something .
No. Stop. I scrub a hand over my face. I’m losing it.
“Need a ride home tonight?” His voice is casual, but it lands heavy.
“No, my truck’s out back.” I lift my chin, leaving out the part where it barely runs and sometimes dies at stop signs. Pride keeps that secret locked tight.
“You sure?” His eyes drop to my hands, lingering on the tiny cuts from the kitchen, the flour smudge on my knuckle. His jaw ticks, like the sight bothers him.
“Positive.” I paste on a grin. “Go do whatever bikers do when they’re not terrifying diner staff.”
His mouth tilts, slow. “You mean when we’re not catching them before they hit the pavement?”
My pulse trips. The heat of his hands is still stamped on my skin, a brand I can’t shake. My throat tightens.
“Yeah. That too. Thanks… for that.”
A sound rumbles out of him, low and deep, almost a laugh. It slides through me, hot and heavy.
“We’ve got a charity ride coming up,” he says, like an afterthought. “First weekend of September. Raising money for the medical facility. You should come.”
I blink. No way. He can’t mean that. Not me . Guys like him don’t ask out girls who smell like fryer grease and go home to empty apartments. Maybe he’s just being polite. Maybe I’m just an idiot for even thinking he’s serious.
Still… the way he’s looking at me, steady and unflinching, makes my stomach turn inside out. No, it has to be a mistake. Except what if it isn’t? God, Cassie, get a grip.
“You want me at a biker thing? With children’s cancer as the theme?”
He shrugs, broad shoulders rolling like he’s not upending my whole world. “There’ll be pie.”
My mouth runs ahead of my brain. “Oh. Well then. Obviously.”
Sarcasm, my only shield. If I don’t hide behind it, I might actually start hoping.
The corner of his mouth kicks up again. “Night, Angel.”
“Goodnight, Reaper.”
I slide into my truck, the night warm and sticky, the kind that makes you wish for rain that never comes. The engine coughs twice before it catches, and I pull onto the empty street.
Headlights follow. Steady. Distant. A motorcycle.
I should be nervous. Instead, calm settles over me, strange and certain. Like the shadow behind me means I’m safe .