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

Holt

“ Y ou back from your stalking, Reaper? We need you here to discuss business.”

Deadeye lifts his beer from his stool at the edge of the bar, eyes sharp beneath the low lights.

Diesel snorts around a mouthful of fries, licking grease from his fingers. “We all know where he was. Bottles & Bites. Stalking that young thing. ”

The bar roars, all teeth and whiskey breath, a couple of prospects banging the counter like it’s the best damn joke they’ve heard all week.

My jaw ticks. Calling Cassie that young thing shouldn’t sit right with me. Doesn’t . But this is how it works around here. They mean no harm. It’s just how bikers talk—rough, crass, and louder than they need to be. These men are brothers. And brothers mock what they suspect might actually matter.

I grunt, dragging my cut into place. “Better a stalker than whipped by a librarian in three days flat.” My eyes cut to Deadeye. “Fastest leash I’ve ever seen.”

That gets them going louder. Beer sloshes. Voices rise.

Deadeye doesn’t bite. He just smirks, slow and steady. “Best leash I ever wore.”

I huff a breath through my nose, but my blood’s already shifting gears. My brothers can joke. They can nudge. They have no idea.

Because not many of them know what it feels like.

People call me Reaper because I’ve walked too many men to their graves.

They call me Holt Gunner , the name my mother gave me. Cancer took her before I was old enough to understand the hole she’d leave behind.

They call me Road Captain because I lead rides through hell and back for the Savage Kings.

I answer to all of it.

What I don’t usually answer to? The pull in my chest every time I lay eyes on the girl with the red hair and freckles behind the diner counter.

Cassie Jean.

Angel.

That’s what I used to call her in my head. Never out loud. Couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t drag her into the dark I live in.

So I watched.

From a distance. From a shadow across the street.

I watched her laugh with Jim, eyes scrunching like the world couldn’t touch her.

I watched her bake pies when she was nervous, flour dusting her cheeks.

I watched her smile at old men and cut handsy customers down with a glare that could strip paint.

I watched her flinch when voices rose too fast. Watched her hands shake when glass hit the floor.

I watched. I learned.

She hides scars behind sarcasm. She’s stronger than she knows.

She had no idea I’ve been guarding her since the day I rolled into Jackson Ridge with a promise in my pocket and blood still drying on my hands.

Caleb Jean, called Ghost , saved my life more than once. SEAL Team 7 dropped us into places most people don’t survive. Missions the government denied existed. We were ghosts . In and out, no trace.

Reaper wasn’t a nickname. It was the job. I went in first. I brought death without a sound.

Until the mission that went to hell.

Intel wrong. Civilians in the blast zone. Command barking to pull out, leave witnesses behind.

I refused. Ghost refused with me. We hauled two kids through open fire while brass screamed to abandon them.

The top dogs wanted us court-martialed.

We told them to go to hell.

Caleb took a bullet for me. I dragged him out. We both made it.

Later, when he needed me, I answered.

“I owe you,” I told him. “Anything.”

He didn’t cash it in right away. Not until the day we split. We were sitting in some dive bar overseas, blood drying on our gear, adrenaline still pounding.

That’s when he pulled out the photo.

A girl. Red curls. Freckles. Eighteen, maybe nineteen.

“My sister,” he said. “You’ll be done soon. I’ve still got years. Keep her safe. She’s the only thing that matters.”

I slid that photo into my wallet.

Carried it into every firefight.

She was too good for the sand and the blood. Too bright . Too soft.

The angel that kept me breathing when everything else wanted me dead.

When I left the Teams, I pointed my Harley west and rode until the Rockies cut the sky. Found Jackson Ridge. Found her.

But she wasn’t a photograph anymore. And that photograph was a few years old. She was twenty-two now, all fire and softness poured into a diner uniform that didn’t do a damn thing to hide those curves.

One look and I knew I was done.

The photo hadn’t lied—she was an angel. But no picture could’ve warned me what it’d feel like to see her in the flesh. Sweet smile. Sharp tongue. A softness I’d never be able to touch without ruining it.

I told myself I’d stay in the shadows.

Told myself she deserved better.

Someone who didn’t sleep with a gun under his pillow.

Someone who hadn’t killed for money.

I told myself a lot of things.

And then I heard her scream.

The sound split the night and shattered everything I thought I was strong enough to do.

I didn’t even hesitate.

That drunk had his hand on her, and something inside me snapped.

Rage hit like a trigger pull.

She was mine.

No one touches what’s mine and walks away whole.

I stepped out of the dark, ready to break bones. Ready to bleed him on the concrete.

And when he shoved her, I caught her.

She crashed into me—soft curves, warm skin, leather and sugar and the kind of trouble a man doesn’t walk away from.

She didn’t even realize it, but she already fit against me like she was made to.

And when she looked up at me, really looked, I was gone .

Inside, I let Jim talk, but my focus never left her. Every move she made pulled at me like a chain.

That mouth . That sass. That body wrapped in fabric too thin to hide what I already knew would undo me.

I broke my silence more than once tonight. Couldn’t help it.

Told her about the charity ride. Told her she should come.

Stupid.

I don’t invite people into my world.

But I want her there.

I want her close.

Cassie Jean is mine to protect.

Mine to guard.

Mine to claim.

Mine until the end of the road.

“Reaper,” Diesel’s voice cuts through the noise, snapping me out of it. “You zoning out, man? You good?”

I blink, dragging myself back to reality. Back to the Black Crown. Back to beer-slick counters and smoke curling beneath low lights.

Deadeye’s standing now, tossing cash on the counter.

“Heading out,” he says. “Got a librarian waiting on me.”

Another round of laughter.

I grunt, nod once, and follow him outside.

“Deadeye,” I mutter when the door creaks shut behind us.

He lights a smoke, nodding like a man who’s been there. Who gets it without needing to ask.

“She safe?”

I nod. “She’s good.”

“You’re screwed,” he says with a smirk, flicking ash to the gravel.

I huff out a laugh. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

He claps my shoulder once, then disappears into the dark.

I swing a leg over my bike.

Fire her up.

Riding home.