Page 4 of Her Possessive Biker (Savage Kings MC #2)

Holt

T he Harley growls low beneath us, the night winding cold around my shoulders as we take the mountain road slow. One hand on the throttle, the other clenched tight around the handlebar, but it’s the weight pressed against my back that owns me.

Cassie Jean. My Angel.

Her arms wrapped around my waist, her cheek resting between my shoulder blades like I’m the one thing in this world that feels safe. She doesn’t say anything. Just holds on.

I threw her duffel over my chest before we left, kept it tight between us for the ride. The lemon bars went into the saddlebag, because of course she brought them, and now they sit beside the only thing that really matters.

We roll into the woods just past the edge of town. Gravel crunches under the tires as the cabin appears. Dark wood, metal roof, quiet porch wrapped in shadow. It’s not much. Not fancy. But it’s mine.

And now, for tonight at least, she is too .

I kill the engine. The silence after the ride rings in my ears.

She slides off the bike behind me, boots hitting the ground, and I hear the quiet exhale like she’s only just remembering how to breathe.

“You good?” I ask without turning.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Just… tired.”

I nod once, swing off the bike, grab the saddlebag, and peel the duffel off my chest. Then I motion her toward the door.

The porch light flickers on when I flip the switch. It paints her in gold.

She looks like something holy.

And then a growl cuts through the night.

I sigh. “Don’t start.”

A gray cat leaps onto the porch railing like she’s been waiting. One ear’s half missing. Her eyes gleam with judgment. Her tail twitches like a loaded gun.

“My cat,” I explain. “Lucy.”

Cassie raises a brow. “Lucy?”

“Short for Lucifer.”

The cat hops to the table and gives Cassie a full-body death glare.

“I like your cat,” she says, a little amused, a little wary.

I scratch behind Lucy’s ear. She glares at me like she might slash my wrist for the offense, then rubs her face against my hand anyway.

“She likes you,” I say. “She hates everyone.”

Lucy stares at Cassie another second. Then, slowly, she hops down and brushes against Cassie’s calf.

Cassie blinks. “That’s… unexpected.”

I grunt. “She’s never done that before.”

We step inside. I drop the bag by the door and flick on the lights. The place is clean. Tidy. Military meets biker. Maps pinned to a corkboard, boots by the door, worn leather furniture, a wall-mounted shelf of whiskey bottles and folded flags. It smells like cedar and smoke.

It smells like me.

Cassie steps in slowly, taking it all in.

“It suits you,” she says, voice soft.

I don’t answer. Just watch her walk through my space like she belongs there.

I set the lemon bars on the counter, her fingers brushing the edge of the plate.

“Do you mind if I shower?”

I shake my head. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Towels are clean.”

She disappears behind the door a moment later, leaving the scent of rain and lemon in the air.

And I’m alone.

I drag a hand down my face.

Get it together, Gunner. You’re forty-two. She’s twenty-two.

She’s here. She’s safe. That’s all that matters.

I head to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, and try not to think about what she looks like behind that door. Wet hair. Bare skin. That curve of hip in the mirror.

Don’t be a bastard. Don’t ruin this.

She’s Ghost’s sister.

The girl I swore to protect.

I used to think innocence was fragile. That it needed to be handled like glass, gentle and distant or you’d break it.

Cassie disproves that theory.

She grew up in hell and still walks like light. She’s fire and softness, sharp and sweet, strength wrapped in vulnerability she doesn't even see.

She hasn’t let life make her hard.

I admire that. I envy it.

I crave it like a dying man craves water.

The bathroom door creaks open. I turn—and nearly forget how to breathe.

She stands there in leggings that cling like a second skin, an oversized T-shirt that hits mid-thigh, bare feet, wet hair piled in a messy bun. No makeup. No armor.

Just Cassie.

Her eyes meet mine. She sees the way I’m looking at her. Of course she does. I don’t hide it fast enough.

But she doesn’t look away.

She just crosses her arms and leans on the doorframe.

“I’m only staying the night,” she says, voice quiet but firm. “I’ll find a new place tomorrow. Somewhere safe. I won’t bother you longer than that.”

I take a step toward her. “You’re not a bother.”

She looks down, arms tightening.

“You’re mine to protect,” I say.

Her gaze lifts, wary. “Why?”

I hesitate. Then say the truth.

“I made a promise to Caleb.”

“A promise to my brother?” she repeats, brow furrowed. “You know my brother?”

I nod once. “Caleb Jean. We served together.”

She blinks. “Cal… told you about me?”

“Showed me a photo. Crumpled thing he kept in his gear. Said you were the only thing that mattered.”

The air changes. Her breath catches.

“And you promised him you’d what? Babysit me?”

I shake my head. “Protect you.”

She laughs once, but it’s brittle. “Because of Cal.”

I pause.

“Yes,” I admit. “I promised him I’d look after you.”

And there it is—the shift. Her face falls. Her shoulders draw in.

“So I’m just a mission to you?”

“Angel.”

“You’re protecting me because you owe him. Not because—” She swallows. “Not because I matter. Not because you wanted to.”

I curse under my breath.

“No. That’s not what I meant.”

Her eyes glisten, betrayal creeping in. “It kind of sounds like that’s exactly what you meant.”

I close the distance between us in two strides. She backs up a step, but I don’t touch her. Not yet.

“Look at me.”

She hesitates.

“Cassie. Look at me .”

Her eyes lift. Green. Angry. Hurt.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, voice rough. “Yes, I made a promise. Yes, it started that way. But that’s not why I kept coming back.”

“Then why?”

I pull my wallet from my back pocket. Flip it open. There, behind my license and spare cash, is a weathered photo. Edges curling. Colors faded.

Red curls. Freckles. A girl smiling into the sun.

“I kept this with me through the end of the mission,” I say, voice thick. “You kept me breathing when everything else wanted me dead.”

She stares at the picture. Her lips part.

“You were never just a mission,” I murmur. “You were my light. My anchor. My reason to make it home. ”

The silence is thick.

Then her fingers brush the edge of the photo, soft like she’s afraid to disturb it.

“You were my angel,” I say. “You still are.”

She looks up. And this time, her eyes aren’t angry.

They’re blazing.

I step closer. My hands hover at her waist. She doesn’t pull back.

“You’re mine to protect,” I say again, softer this time. “But not because I have to.”

“Then why?” she whispers.

“Because I want to. Because I need to. Because I don’t think I could stop if I tried.”

She sways toward me.

“Cassie,” I warn, voice gravel and need. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Her hand curls around the front of my shirt.

“I think I do.”

That’s all it takes.

My mouth crashes onto hers, hands catching her hips like they belong to me—because they do. She melts into me, sweet and fierce, fingers curling into my shirt like she’s starving and I’m the only thing that’ll ever feed her.

The kiss is brutal. Messy. Real . Everything I’ve kept buried under lock and chain comes tearing loose.

And still— still —I pull back first. Just barely. My forehead presses to hers, breath coming fast.

“This changes everything,” I rasp.

She nods. “I know.”

“You’re mine now. There’s no turning back.”

Her breath hitches. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

I snap.

A sound tears out of me—low, rough, dangerous. I grab her, big hands locking around her thighs as I haul her against me like she weighs nothing. She gasps, legs wrapping around my waist, fingers tangled in my hair now.

Mine.

She fits too damn perfectly. Her body molds to me like it’s always belonged there, like this moment was carved into time just waiting for us to reach it.

I don’t walk. I stalk through the house, every step heavy with possession, fury, and need. My grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens, like I think someone might try to take her from me. Like I’d kill them if they did.

I don’t look at her. I don’t have to. I feel her.

Her breath on my neck.

The thrum of her heartbeat pressed to my chest.

The way she clings like she knows —like she feels it too.

This isn’t gentle. It’s not a sweet romance with flowers and soft sighs. This is what happens when a man starves himself for too long, and the one thing he needs falls into his arms.

She’s mine.

She’s mine.

And I’m never letting go.