Page 3 of Her Possessive Biker (Savage Kings MC #2)

Cassie

T hinking about him is driving me insane. It’s been two days since Reaper pulled me out of that alley and I haven’t seen him since.

The heat that shot through me when he caught me hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s gotten worse. Every time I close my eyes, I feel the thud of his heartbeat under my palm. I remember how solid he felt. How steady. How dangerous.

Obsession isn’t exactly healthy, I know. But having him fill my brain makes it easier not to think about my actual life.

After Dad died, I was alone for years. Thought Cal didn’t care enough to stay. Thought he’d left just like Mom did—vanished without a goodbye and took every ounce of warmth with her.

Later I found out Cal left to pay off Dad’s debts. I hadn’t known. I just thought I wasn’t enough to stay for.

He’s fifteen years older than me, more like a father figure than a brother. He used to shield me from our father’s fists. At least… when he was home.

“You’re brooding,” Camden sings as she slides onto the stool beside me at the diner counter.

Camden Carmichael, librarian and certified sunshine tornado.

She wasn’t always like this, but now she walks around like she owns the world. Blonde hair in a braid, T-shirt that says BOOKS ARE MY BOYFRIENDS . Too cute. Too nosy.

She props her chin in her hand and stares me down.

“Tell Auntie Camden all your secrets.”

I snort. “One: never call yourself Auntie Camden again. Two: if I start talking, we’ll be here until Jim kicks us out. Though I’m just working half a shift today.”

She waves a hand. “Please. It’s my day off and Diego’s picking me up later anyway. Spill it.”

Diego "Deadeye Sanchez". Camden’s biker boyfriend. The man is a walking murder stare wrapped in tattoos and possessive tendencies, and yet they somehow work. They’re the weirdest, most adorable chaos couple I’ve ever seen.

They also convinced me that not all bikers are cavemen.

Still not convinced that applies to Holt.

Yeah, I found out his name. Holt Gunner.

Though… I’m partial to Reaper , especially when he says Angel like it belongs to me.

I glance over my shoulder. Jim’s arguing with a supplier about egg prices. No one’s paying attention to me.

I lean toward Camden. “Remember the biker I told you about? From the other night?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Obviously. I tried to get Diego to spill, but he clammed up like a vault.”

I smack her arm. “Why would you do that?”

She shrugs, grinning. “I thought I could help.”

“Anyway, I keep thinking about him. It’s weird. It’s infuriating. It’s—”

“Sexy?”

“Camden.”

She laughs. “Sorry, sorry. But like… did you have any dreams about him? Maybe the kind that come with a rating ?”

“Cam!”

She winks. “Just asking.”

I groan and drop my forehead to the counter. “I must be going crazy, but… I think I’ve seen him before. I mean—really seen him. I didn’t notice at first, but now… I think he’s been watching me for a while.”

“Really?” She perks up like this is the best gossip she’s heard in months. “That’s juicy. You sure?”

“No.” I sigh. “Of course not. It’s just a feeling.”

I sit up. “He hasn’t come by since that night.”

Camden softens. “Ohhh.”

“Yeah.” I fiddle with a sugar packet, tearing it down the side. “I wish Cal were here. I miss talking to him.”

Just saying it makes my chest ache.

I haven’t heard from him in months. The last call was a rushed, “I’m okay, stay safe, don’t do anything stupid,” followed by static. I hung up, screamed at the empty air, and cried into my pillow like I was seventeen again.

Still mad at him. Still miss him so much it settles in my bones.

Camden’s voice gentles. “He’s your brother, Cass. He loves you. He left because he had to.”

“I know.” I blow out a breath. “Talking about it isn’t going to make him magically show up.”

But God, do I wish it would.

The shift drags, but I clock out early and head home. By the time I pull into the drive, the sky's turned dark and moody, thunder rumbling low like it’s chewing on a threat.

Rain slams against the tin roof of my little rental, that steady, rattling kind of storm that should feel cozy. It doesn’t. Not to me. It makes my skin crawl with memories I can’t shake.

So I bake.

Lemon bars, this time. The scent of sugar and citrus fills the air as I stir and sift and measure. My heartbeat slows with each step. The oven hums, the timer ticks, and for a few minutes, I feel almost steady.

When the ding finally sounds and the worst of the storm has drifted off, I leave the lemon bars to cool under the oven light and step outside.

The air is thick with that post-rain smell, clean and earthy, like possibility scrubbed free of dust. Jackson Ridge sits curled in the shadow of the Rockies, the peaks still hidden behind layers of cloud, but the sky above town is streaked with lavender and steel.

The storm didn’t break me, but I feel cracked open.

I need to move.

I grab a hoodie, lace up my sneakers, and head for the trail at the edge of town. Lost Pine Loop. A couple miles of winding dirt and footbridges, the kind of place locals say helps you think. I don’t come to think. I come to breathe.

The path is slick but solid beneath my shoes. Trees drip in silence. Somewhere off in the underbrush, a twig snaps, and my heart leaps into my throat.

I laugh at myself, weak and breathless. “It’s just a deer,” I mutter. “Get it together, Cass.”

The first bridge comes into view and I stop halfway across, leaning on the wet wooden rail to watch the creek churn below. Water rushes loud under my feet. The smell of moss and pine hangs in the air. I breathe in, deep. Breathe out, slower.

This is how I survive the noise in my head.

Until I hear footsteps behind me.

At first, I ignore them. Plenty of people walk this trail. But something about the cadence is off. Too quick. Too sure. I go still.

Then I hear voices.

Low. Male. Close.

I turn.

Two men stand at the edge of the bridge. One has a shaved head and a black eye patch. The other sports a snake tattoo. Their eyes don’t smile. The glint of steel flashes on one of their belts.

My stomach drops.

“Pretty night for a walk,” Patch-Eye drawls.

My mouth goes dry. “Trail’s public,” I say, casual like I don’t feel the panic building in my throat. “Enjoy your walk.”

I move to pass them. They step wider.

Block my way.

Snake grins. “You work at the diner.” His eyes crawl over me like oil. “Red hair. Cute freckles. Pretty little thing.”

My blood ices. My brain screams run, but my body doesn’t move. The bridge is narrow and the creek below is rocks and current. If I bolt, they’ll be on me before I take a step.

“I’m just heading home,” I say, voice barely above steady. I shift back, just enough to plan an escape. My foot skids on the damp wood and my ankle rolls.

Snake lunges.

His fingers lock around my wrist and pain shoots up my arm. I gasp.

“Home? You mean that dump rental you hole up in? Like you had any better options after your old man drank himself to death and left all kind of debts behind. You think we don’t know who you are, Cassie Jean?”

My spine goes stiff. “I don’t have anything to do with that,” I manage. “Whatever my dad owed—”

“You do now.” Snake’s grip tightens. “Your brother bailed. Last payment never came through. That means you’re up next.”

My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my ears. “Let me go,” I whisper.

Patch-Eye pulls a knife from his coat.

I scream.

It tears out of me raw, louder than I meant it to be, louder than I’ve ever screamed. Snake jerks me closer. His nails dig in. My whole body locks down.

And then—

“Rethink that,” a voice says.

Low. Dangerous.

Familiar.

Reaper.

He steps onto the bridge like something summoned. Like the storm called him back. Leather. Denim. Steel-gray eyes that could cut a man open without moving a muscle.

Snake sneers. “Walk away. Not your business.”

Reaper’s smile is ice. “She is my business. Everything in Jackson Ridge is my business. Let her go.”

Patch-Eye lunges. Reaper’s faster. The knife hits the boards. Patch-Eye hits his knees. Reaper’s boot pins him there while he twists his arm behind his back like it’s nothing.

Snake pulls me tighter. “Back off.”

Reaper moves.

His hand clamps over Snake’s wrist and peels it away like peeling bark from a tree. He shoves me behind him without looking.

“Stay.”

The word is a command.

My back hits the railing. I grip it hard. White-knuckle, death-grip hard.

Snake swings. Reaper takes the hit and doesn’t flinch. Then he drives a fist into Snake’s gut. Snake folds like paper. Reaper yanks him by the collar, slams him into the far rail, and leans in close.

I can’t hear what he says. But Snake goes pale.

Reaper shoves him back and growls, “Crawl away before I change my mind.”

They go. Stumbling. Muttering threats that don’t sound half as scary now. Reaper watches until they vanish into the trees.

Then he turns to me.

“You hurt?”

The sound of his voice nearly buckles my knees. Adrenaline fades fast. My body starts to tremble. He steps closer and reaches, then hesitates. His hand lingers in the air.

I nod.

His arm wraps around me, solid and warm. His chest hits my back, heat seeping through the leather. I lean into it. Can’t help it. He’s the only thing that feels real.

“Breathe,” he murmurs against my ear. “It’s over.”

His breath brushes the shell of my ear. Warm. Steady. Anchoring.

It’s over, he said.

But I’m still trembling like the ground hasn’t stopped shaking.

I lean into him because I don’t trust my legs. His arm doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens. Not in a painful way. More like… mine .

“You’re packing a bag and coming with me,” he says.

I blink. “What?”

“Your place isn’t safe.”

“I—I can’t just leave.”

His jaw brushes my temple. “Yes, you can.”

I twist in his arms, just enough to see him. His eyes burn silver in the fading light, steady and unyielding.

“I’ll keep you safe.”

He says it like it’s a done deal. Like I don’t get a say. But I do. And I should tell him no. I should step back. I should insist I’m fine.

But I’m not fine. Not even close.

My skin still buzzes where Snake’s fingers gripped too tight. My lungs still drag for air like the scream hasn’t fully left me. My throat still tastes like panic.

And Reaper?

Reaper feels like the only safe thing I’ve got.

“Okay,” I say quietly.

His nod is barely visible, but I feel it in the shift of his shoulders.

“I’ll walk you back,” he says.

We move together. Step for step, like he knows how to match my pace even without asking. The trail winds under our feet, still slick from the storm, but he keeps one hand hovering near my back like he’s ready to catch me if I even think about falling again.

When we reach my place, the lemon bars are still sitting on the counter under the glow of the oven light. Everything looks normal. Like I could pretend tonight never happened.

But I can’t.

He follows me inside without asking. Stands in the doorway like he owns the shadows there. I grab a duffel from the bedroom and start throwing clothes into it. Not thinking, just moving.

“You have meds? Anything you need?” His voice is quiet, but the steel’s still there.

I shake my head.

When I turn around, he’s closer. Not touching, but present. Like gravity shifted.

I clutch the bag to my chest. “Where are we going?”

He holds my gaze. “Somewhere no one touches you.”

The breath leaves me in a rush. The fear that’s been clawing at my insides lets go, just a little.

I hesitate, then swipe the plate of lemon bars off the counter and set it gently on top of the duffel.

Because comfort looks different to everyone. Tonight, mine is sugar-dusted and still warm.

He doesn’t say a word. Just opens the door and waits.