Page 7 of The Biker's Savage Desire

She shrugs like it’s nothing, but her fingers worry at the edge of her dress, tugging, releasing, and then tugging again.

“I figure if you wanted me dead, you’d have done it already.” A flash of a smirk, quick and crooked appears. “You’d have done it before I got back to the cabin. I mean, the woods would’ve been cleaner. It was a prime opportunity.”

I huff out something between a scoff and a laugh. “You think that’s how it works?”

“I don’t know how it works.” She pauses, then softens as she says, “But if you were the kind of man I should be scared of,I think I’d feel it. I mean, your size is kind of intimidating, and your attitude earlier was giving off murderer vibes, but now, you seem kind of harmless…to me anyway.”

I don’t move. I just watch her and the way her eyes narrow slightly, like she’s trying to match puzzle pieces with missing edges.

“You should be scared,” I say finally. “I’m definitely fucked up.”

The air between us tightens, pressed heavy by an honesty that’s harsh but real.

“What made you start…killing people?” she asks, still fiddling with the end of her dress.

“I don’t know… desperation, probably. I grew up poor. Real poor. The kind of poor that leaves you invisible. My ma and I lived in an old cabin west of Amarillo. Soon as I was old enough, I started taking care of us. Robbing stores to get food, sometimes a beer or two. Spent some time in the hospital for a robbery gone bad, and found myself in the military after that, but I sent every penny back to my ma.” I scrub my hand down over my beard and grab a toothpick out of my shirt pocket, chewing on the end as I say, “I watched good people do horrible things my whole damn life. That kind of violence brands itself on your bones.”

I shift the toothpick at the corner of my mouth and stare toward Mae, hoping maybe she can see past the broken parts of me, though I’m not sure why I care. The second this storm stops, we’ll go our separate ways.

“That sounds difficult, growing up like that.” Her voice is soft. “I bet feeling like you have no choice in life makes you do things you never thought you’d be capable of.”

“Ah, I don’t make excuses, but I didn’t wake up wantin’ to be a killer. Truth is, I did what I had to. Got back from war, was offered big money for going after the scum of the earth with theMC, and I took it. Set my ma up real nice, and she lived out her final days in luxury. It wasn’t right, but it’s a part of who I am.” I pull the wooden stick out of my mouth and toss it into the fire, watching as the flames snap and throw light across the cabin walls.

There’s a low hum behind my ribs. The kind that shows up when the truth lands and there’s nothing left to hide behind.

She didn’t bolt, didn’t recoil. That’s good. She just listened. Not sure what to do with that.That said, she isn’t saying much.

“You probably think I’m a monster now, huh?”

Her hand slides from her sleeve and slowly lands on my arm. “You’re not a monster. You’re a man who’s had to carry too much all alone.”

For a second I don’t say anything. Instead, I watch the flames coil around the newly placed log as heat spills into the room and something tighter coils around my chest. Something unfamiliar.

“Where’d you go?” Her voice is nearly a whisper.

“Ah, just watchin’ the fire.” I risk a glance her way.

It’s deadly.

She shifts closer, the soft fire glow warming her perfectly smooth skin.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t speak. If I do, the cage doors will swing open, and I’ll be doing things animals do. Things that’ll wreck us both.

The resolve doesn’t last.

I lean in slowly, instinctively, without thought, as though she belongs to me, as though she always has.

Her breath catches as her hand fists into my shirt, and her eyes search mine.

I’m frozen in the moment, tangled between something not earned but offered. Lord knows I’m not a smooth talker. I’ve lived horridly, but this… this isn’t about charm. It’s about need,and heat, and the quiet desperation of two people trying to forget the world outside this cabin.

Her lips press against mine, slow and deliberate, and damn if I don’t feel it in every worn-down part of me.

What the fuck is happening?

I shouldn’t be touching her.

I definitely shouldn’t feel a damn thing about it, but I do.

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