Page 7 of Her Possessive Biker (Savage Kings MC #2)

Holt

I hadn’t planned on bringing her to The Black Crown. I’d planned to stay in the shadows. Intervene only when necessary. That was the deal I made with myself.

But that deal went up in smoke the second those bastards laid hands on her in the woods. The second I heard her scream like her soul was being torn in half.

Since then, everything’s changed.

I’m not the kind of man who plans ahead anyway. I react. I move. I fix. When Prez called me to handle club business, there wasn’t a single part of me willing to leave her behind.

So I didn’t.

The Black Crown sits off Highway 89, near the bones of an old train yard. Officially, Grizz Calloway’s name is on the deed. Unofficially, it belongs to the Savage Kings. Brick by brick. Blood by blood.

We roll in just after twelve. Gravel crunches beneath the tires. Bikes crowd the lot, lined like soldiers waiting for orders. Music rumbles from inside, low and gritty. The kind of sound that coats your teeth in smoke and your soul in sin.

I kill the engine. Cassie slides off behind me, boots hitting the dirt with a thud. She’s clutching her bag like it’s body armor. Her eyes flick to the door, to the noise, to the unknown waiting inside.

I feel her nerves. I feel everything.

“It’s just a bar,” I mutter. “No one’s gonna touch you. You’re safe.”

“I know,” she says, but her voice is too soft to sell it.

She doesn’t know this world yet. Doesn’t know that when I say she’s safe, it means any man who tries gets his jaw shattered and his ribs turned to dust.

The door creaks open.

Reyna Vasquez steps into the light. Black boots, black jeans, black tank. Her hair’s in a braid and her eyes gleam with something close to murder.

Red. The club’s bar manager and unofficial drill sergeant. She’s been around longer than most patched members. Runs this place like a fortress. Like a queen with steel in her veins.

She sizes Cassie up in one glance.

“So this is Ghost’s little sister.”

Cassie stiffens beside me.

Red gives her a small nod. “Reaper told us the story. About your brother. About the promise he made.”

Then she slings an arm around Cassie like she’s been part of the club since forever. “Come on, honey. You’ll be fine. Stick with me.”

Then she levels me with a look that could carve granite.

“And you. Ease the throttle. She’s not glass. She’s not yours to cage.”

I open my mouth, but she keeps going.

“Don’t start with the look, Reaper. I’ve watched you mope through my bar for months. You made a promise. I respect that. But protecting ain’t the same as controlling. Let her breathe or she’ll start thinking she needs permission just to exist.”

She drags Cassie inside before I can say a damn word.

She’s right. I know it.

Doesn’t mean I like it.

Inside, The Black Crown is alive with noise. Laughter. Voices raised over rock music and the scrape of stools on concrete. The air’s thick with beer, sweat, and smoke.

Eyes track us the moment we cross the threshold. The redhead under Red’s arm gets a full round of stares—some curious, some hungry, all dangerous.

I look each of them in the eye.

One by one, they look away.

Because I’m not just Reaper. I’m Road Captain. Savage Kings to the bone. And the girl beside me? She’s off-limits.

“She the one who makes the pies?” one prospect asks from a booth.

“I heard they’re better than sex,” another says.

Cassie’s cheeks flush pink, but her spine straightens just enough to make me proud.

“I live on those pies,” Red says, tossing the pack behind the bar. “If you feel like baking, the kitchen’s yours.”

Cassie finally smiles. The first real one since we stepped inside.

She looks up at me, then back to Red. “I’d like that.”

“You’ll need flour,” Red mutters. “The idiots used the last of it making beer-battered fries.”

She shoots me one last look, then leaves us. I lean into Cassie, my hand brushing her lower back.

“I’ve got club business to handle.”

Her expression tightens.

“I’ll be back soon.”

She nods, but I don’t move yet.

Not without a parting kiss.

I tip her chin up. Her eyes go wide just before I press my mouth to hers. Not gentle. Not soft. But something she’ll feel even after I’m gone.

The room quiets.

Eyes swing our way.

Let them watch. Let them see who she belongs to.

When I pull back, her lips are parted, breath short.

“You gonna be okay?” I ask, rough.

“I’ll bake,” she says.

I nod. Then I leave.

Deadeye tosses me a grim look as we gear up by the back exit. Diesel loads the last crate into the van, the slam of the door sharp and final in the night air.

“You sure about this?” Deadeye asks. “Leaving her here? This deal could go sideways fast.”

I grit my teeth. “Not like I had a damn choice.”

The truth is, my gut’s twisted in knots since the second I let Angel out of my sight. She’s inside with Red, safe behind the thick walls of Savage Kings’ territory, but it still feels wrong. Exposed. Like I’ve left a piece of myself behind enemy lines.

“I didn’t plan to bring her to the bar,” I admit, voice low. “Didn’t plan any of this.”

Deadeye exhales, tight and rough. “Plans don’t mean shit when someone you care about’s in danger.”

He’s not wrong. I’ve always been the quiet one, the controlled one. I don’t flinch. I don’t fold. But now my hands are shaking, and the only thing I can think about is her freckles and how soft she looked curled up in my bed this morning.

Diesel slams the van door shut. “We rolling or what?”

“Yeah.” I nod, steel settling into my spine. “Let’s finish this.”

The meet is a few miles out. Remote enough to keep the law away, close enough to make it feel personal. Word is, the Son of Decimation are running weapons through our turf—Jackson Ridge—like they own it.

They don’t.

This is Savage Kings territory. And they’ve forgotten what that means.

We park just shy of the clearing. Deadeye and Diesel flank the van. I walk ahead.

There are six of them. Two trucks. Crates already open. I clock rifles. AKs. One of them’s got a hand cannon strapped to his thigh like he thinks that makes him untouchable.

“Reaper,” one of them mutters. Calls himself Stitch, like that’s supposed to intimidate anyone. “Didn’t expect you boys so early.”

I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “Didn’t expect you to be this stupid.”

His crew tenses. Mine doesn’t. We don’t flinch when things turn ugly. We are ugly. We were born in it.

“This is Savage ground,” I say, taking another step forward. “You move product through here again, you answer to me.”

Stitch tilts his head. “You got new priorities these days, don’t you? That red heir from Bottles&Bites.”

My blood turns to fire.

Deadeye growls. “Say that again. See what happens.”

Stitch lifts both hands. “Hey. Just saying. Lot of people talking. Reaper’s getting soft.”

I shoot him once. Not in the head. Not yet. Right through the thigh. He screams. Hits the dirt.

The others freeze. Diesel trains his piece on the driver of the second truck. “Anybody else got something to say?”

I walk forward, crouch next to Stitch, and speak so quiet it’s almost gentle.

“You talk about her again, you don’t get a bullet next time. You get buried.”

He whimpers. Nods.

We take the weapons. We torch the rest. We leave the message in blood and fire, same as always.

But none of it feels like enough. Back on the road, I worry about Cassie.

What if something happened while I was gone?

If anything ever happens to her—

God help them.

Because there’s nothing I won’t burn down to protect her.