Page 8 of Her Possessive Biker (Savage Kings MC #2)
Cassie
T hey eat the pies in less than fifteen minutes. I baked three. One peach, one apple, and one of those chocolate-pecan things I made for a fall festival once that won a ribbon. I don’t know what I was expecting—praise, maybe? A slice or two before someone politely declared they were full?
Nope.
The men of the Savage Kings are ravenous.
They dive in like they’ve been fasting for a month, forks flashing, heads tilted back in bliss. One even moans. I think it was Torque. Or maybe Ace. I don’t know all their names yet, but they’re all loud, tattooed, and absolutely shameless when it comes to dessert.
“She’s an angel,” one of them says with his mouth full.
“Careful there,” Red corrects, arms crossed behind the bar. “She’s Reaper’s Angel.”
That silences them.
At least for half a second.
Then someone mutters, “Still an angel.”
And I can’t help it, I smile. Just a little.
Red elbows me gently. “Told you they’d lose their minds.”
“I didn’t think they’d inhale them.”
“They always do. You got the touch.”
I try to pretend it’s not the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in weeks.
But I want to bake more. I want that glow in their eyes again. I want to make something that gets devoured and appreciated in the same breath. It’s not about being impressive. It’s about doing. About having purpose. About proving to myself that I’m not just some girl on the run.
I wipe my hands on a towel and head toward the pantry. “I think I saw flour in—”
Red intercepts me with a frown. “We’re out. And no, before you ask, you are not going to the store. I’ll send a prospect later.”
“I don’t mind—”
“I do,” she says, firm. “You’re under club protection now, and club protection means staying inside the perimeter unless someone’s with you. Got it?”
I nod, but something restless flares up inside me.
Reaper has been gone for hours. He left with Deadeye and Diesel to deal with some club business, kissed me in front of everyone like I was his and only his, and then vanished out the door like a storm in denim and leather.
I know he’s coming back. I know he wouldn’t leave me here if it wasn’t safe.
But still, I feel like I’m holding my breath.
And I hate waiting.
When Red gets distracted by a delivery coming through the back, I grab my purse from behind the counter, scribble a quick note —Just grabbing flour, be right back, promise!—a nd slip out the side door like a girl on a mission.
The sun hits my skin and the warm breeze smells like cut grass and exhaust. I hug the wall as I walk past the line of bikes, staying out of sight.
Red would kill me if she saw me, but I’m not helpless.
I’ve been taking care of myself for years.
I can walk to the tiny corner store two blocks down and be back before anyone notices I’m gone.
It feels good to move.
I cross the lot, pass the alley, cut down the gravel path, and head toward the gas station grocery. It’s not fancy, but it has what I need. I grab two bags of flour and a little carton of eggs just in case. Then I head back.
But I don’t make it all the way.
The alley near the back fence is quiet. Too quiet.
A shadow moves behind me.
I don’t have time to scream.
A hand clamps over my mouth. Another yanks the grocery bag from my grip. The eggs hit the ground and shatter. The flour spills. Arms wrap around me. A voice growls low in my ear.
“Thought we wouldn’t find you, sugar?”
My stomach drops.
I know that voice.
It’s the man from the trail. The one with the crooked teeth and breath that smelled like rot. Snake. The one who dragged me by the wrist and laughed when I cried.
I thrash, kick, scream into the palm covering my mouth, but it’s no use. He’s too strong. And there’s more than one of them. Two. Three. Maybe more. One grabs my legs. Another holds my arms.
“You’re worth a lot more than pies, sweetheart,” Patch-Eye sneers.
They drag me toward a van parked at the end of the alley. The doors are already open. Inside, it’s dark and empty and smells like oil and metal. My heart hammers in my chest.
Reaper will come.
He will.
But I have to hold on long enough for him to find me.
“Should’ve known you’d run to the biker,” one of them mutters as they shove me into the van. “They always do. But he can’t save you now.”
“You’re making a mistake,” I manage to spit, voice shaking. “The Savage Kings will come for me.”
“Oh, they might,” the man says, snapping the doors shut. “But by the time they do, you’ll already be shipped out of state. Daddy’s debt goes deep, sugar. And you? You’re the collateral.”
The van roars to life.
And we disappear into the daylight.