Page 12 of Her Possessive Biker (Savage Kings MC #2)

Cassie

B y the time we pull into the Black Crown’s lot, the sun is climbing higher. The air smells like old engine oil and asphalt baking under heat, but it might as well be roses with how my heart stutters when I see the guys waiting outside.

Not all of them, but enough.

Deadeye. Diesel. Even Red—arms crossed, looking like she’s been pacing since dawn.

The second Holt parks the truck and helps me down, Red is there. She wraps me in a hug so fierce I nearly lose my breath.

“You scared the shit out of us,” she mutters into my hair.

“I was pretty scared myself,” I admit.

The others gather around. It’s not just curiosity or guilt. It’s something else entirely. A weird warmth in the pit of my stomach makes my eyes sting.

Family.

This is what it feels like.

A couple of the guys are awkward in that endearing, tough-guy way. Crank hands me a bag of flour with a solemn nod, like it’s some kind of peace offering.

I actually laugh.

“You almost died trying to buy the damn thing. Figured you deserved another shot at pie.”

Holt’s arm finds its home at my back, hand splayed across my waist like a brand. I lean into him automatically. Safe. Steady. Home.

We’re heading inside when a low rumble cuts through the air. A Jeep pulls into the lot, kicking up a swirl of dust.

The man who climbs out looks like he could bench-press Holt’s bike. Tall, broad, late thirties maybe. Dark blond hair, sun-creased skin, and eyes that sweep the place like he’s sizing up every threat. Ex-military, no doubt.

Then the passenger door opens, and out steps a beautiful curvy girl. Brown waves of hair, hazel eyes full of sharp curiosity, fingers brushing the spine of a notebook like she’s always ready to take notes.

She’s pretty in a girl-next-door way, but the way the biker boys glance her way earns a flash of pure death from the man beside her.

He moves to her side fast. Real fast.

Possessive much?

I don’t blame him. In fact, it’s kind of hot.

Reaper steps forward, arms crossed. “You the cavalry?”

The man nods once. “Hayden Blaze. Sent by Ghost.”

“And this is Cathy Bennett,” the woman adds, holding out a hand.

Her handshake is strong. Her smile is stronger.

“Cassie,” I say. “Cassie Jean.”

“Oh my god,” Cathy blurts, looking around wide-eyed. “I’ve never actually stepped foot in a biker clubhouse before. Do they always smell like leather and testosterone?”

Deadeye coughs out a laugh.

“Pretty much,” I tell her.

Hayden’s jaw tightens when one of the guys lingers a look too long on Cathy. He steps closer to her like he’s daring someone to try it again. Cathy just rolls her eyes and links her arm through his.

“He’s like this even at the grocery store,” she whispers to me. “You’d think I was a precious national treasure.”

“You kind of are,” Hayden mutters under his breath.

Oh.

Yeah.

They’re that couple.

And honestly, I love them already.

We head inside the Black Crown, and it’s like someone flipped a switch. Red calls for coffee. Diesel and Crank help Cathy get settled in one of the booths. Hayden pulls out a file from the Jeep, and Holt and Deadeye move in fast.

It’s business now.

But the good kind.

The kind where we get to be on the offensive.

“We’ve been tracking Patch-Eye and Snake through separate investigations,” Cathy explains, flipping open the folder. “I’m an investigative journalist. I was digging into a trafficking ring that’s been recruiting girls off social media and forcing them across state lines.”

My stomach turns. My fingers clench on the edge of the table.

“They’ve been at this for years,” Hayden adds. “But they’ve been careful. No loose ends. No survivors. Until now.”

My throat goes dry. “They were going to sell me?”

Cathy looks me straight in the eyes. “Yes. And worse. But you surviving? Escaping? Catching them in Savage Kings’ territory? That’s the nail in the coffin.”

“And with my contacts in state police and federal intel,” Hayden adds, voice low and grim, “they’ll never see daylight again.”

Holt’s hand finds mine under the table.

I squeeze back.

“Why didn’t the cops help before?” I ask. “When Cal tried to pay them off?”

“They weren’t paying attention to small debts,” Cathy says. “But they sure as hell will now. And with what your club found, plus our evidence, this entire operation goes up in flames.”

“Your brother knew it wasn’t enough to run,” Hayden says. “He sent us to burn it down.”

I blink fast. “And you just came? For him?”

“I owe Caleb my life,” Hayden says simply.

“And I love exposing assholes,” Cathy adds cheerfully.

That makes me smile.

By the time the briefing ends, I’m standing with Cathy on the back porch of the bar, two mugs of coffee between us, and more relief than I know what to do with sitting heavy in my chest.

“I still can’t believe any of this,” I admit. “Two days ago I was baking lemon bars and trying not to cry in the walk-in fridge.”

She laughs. “And now?”

“And now…” I glance toward the door, where Holt is talking with Hayden. “Now I’ve got a biker in my bed and people ready to burn the world down for me.”

Cathy bumps her shoulder against mine. “Welcome to the club.”

Later that evening, the sun’s dipped low enough to cast golden stripes across the hardwood floor of Reaper’s cabin.

I’m barefoot, curled into the corner of the worn-in couch, a mug of tea warming my hands. Holt’s sitting across from me, boots off, legs wide, watching me like I’m the only thing in the world that makes sense.

And maybe I am. For him.

Because he sure as hell is that for me.

It’s quiet. Comfortable.

The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled.

But Holt’s eyes keep shifting like he’s trying to build up to something.

“Alright,” I say, lifting an eyebrow. “Spill.”

His lips tug into a smirk, but there’s a crackle of nerves underneath it. “You always this bossy when you get comfortable?”

“Only when a man looks like he’s about to detonate with whatever he’s holding in.”

He chuckles. “Fair.”

He leans forward. His elbows rest on his knees, hands braced together like he’s grounding himself before he speaks. Then he reaches into the pocket of his flannel jacket—thrown over the back of the armchair—and pulls out… a ring.

A thick, solid silver band. Weathered edges. The Savage Kings emblem faintly engraved on the inside. It’s simple. Strong. A little battered. Kind of like Holt. Kind of like us.

My heart climbs into my throat.

“I don’t have a speech,” he says roughly. “Didn’t plan this. Didn’t even know I was gonna do it until I saw you this morning sleeping like you belonged here.”

I blink. My hand tightens around the mug.

He sets it down on the table between us and leans back again, rubbing his palms on his jeans like they’re sweaty. Reaper. Sweaty-palmed . That alone nearly undoes me.

“I’ve loved you for a while now,” he says, quieter. “Since that picture Caleb showed me. Since you climbed into my bed and turned my world upside down. Since I realized I’d burn this whole damn town if it meant keeping you breathing.”

My eyes sting.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he continues, voice low, “but I know I don’t want a life that doesn’t have you in it.”

He reaches for the ring again and holds it out, just sitting in the center of his wide palm.

“So… marry me, Angel.”

The breath I take is shaky. Everything inside me goes soft, liquid, bright.

Not because it’s perfect or planned.

Because it’s him. Raw and real and entirely unguarded.

I set the mug down. Crawl across the couch. Slide right into his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, arms wrapped around his neck. I press my forehead to his and breathe him in.

“Yes,” I whisper. “God, yes.”

His chest caves like I just pulled the pressure off his entire world.

“You sure?” he murmurs. “You don’t want, I don’t know, roses or diamonds or a big fancy speech?”

“I want you. You’re the speech. You’re the ring. You’re the entire fucking point.”

His lips crash into mine, all heat and promise and hunger, and I kiss him back like I’ve never said yes to anything harder in my life.

When I finally pull back, I look down at the ring still clutched in his hand. “Put it on me.”

He slides it onto my finger. It fits perfectly. Of course it does.

Then he strokes his thumb across my hand, holding it there like he can’t quite believe it’s real.

“I didn’t want to wait,” he says. “Not after everything.”

“Good,” I whisper. “Neither did I.”

We sit like that for a while. Me curled into him, his hands roaming over my back, grounding us both. The heat between us always simmers, always hums, but this moment isn’t about that. It’s steadier. Deeper.

“You know tomorrow’s the charity ride,” he murmurs against my temple.

“I know.”

“You still coming with me?”

I pull back just enough to look at him. “I told you I would. That night at Bottles&Bites. Remember?”

“You mean the night I realized I’d kill anyone who looked at you wrong?”

“Yeah. That one.”

He grins. “Guess I didn’t scare you off.”

“You don’t scare me, Reaper. You wreck me. And I like it.”

He groans and buries his face in my neck.