Page 2 of Her Possessive Biker
My stomach knots. I clutch the bag tighter and try to slip past, but he lurches forward, reeking of whiskey and sweat, blocking my path.
“Don’t be shy, sugar.” His hand sways toward my arm, clumsy but sure. “Bet you taste even sweeter than you look.”
My pulse spikes. Old memories slam into me. Shouting. Shattering glass. My chest tightens until I can’t breathe right.
“Don’t touch me,” I manage, though my voice shakes.
He just laughs. “Come on, sugar. Don’t play hard to get.” His fingers snag the sleeve of my uniform, rough and unrelenting.
“Back. Away.”
The words cut through the night, low and lethal.
The drunk startles, head jerking up as a shadow steps out of the far end of the alley. It moves closer, taking shape. A man.Massive, shoulders filling the dark, every step carrying the weight of someone who could end another man and never lose sleep.
Dark hair cut short, gray streaks at his temples. A beard that should look wild but is trimmed close. Tattoos twisting down his arm, black ink against bronze skin. A leather cut stretched across his back.Savage Kings.
And his eyes. Steel gray. Cold.Merciless.
He doesn’t need to raise his voice. Violence clings to him like a second skin.
“Hey, I wasn’t—” the drunk stammers.
The man closes in, voice a low growl that makes the air itself tense. “Touch her again and I’ll snap your hands, crush your jaw, and keep breaking you until you’re crawling in the dirt like the worthless piece of shit you are.”
The drunk jerks back at the growl, but not before shoving me hard enough that my feet skid on the broken pavement. My stomach drops. The ground rushes up fast, and for a split second I’m sure I’m going to hit it.
I don’t.
An arm catches me, hard and certain, locking around my waist before I can fall. I slam into a chest like solid rock, leather brushing my skin, steady and unshakable.
My palms splay against him, broad shoulders and iron muscle under my fingers. Warmth bleeds through, and for one dizzy second it feels like he’s the only thing keeping me on my feet.
“Angel,” he says, the word rolling out of him like warm whiskey. It doesn’t sound like comfort. It sounds like a claim, sweet and dangerous all at once, burned straight into my skin.
My breath stutters, shaky and uneven. At first I think he must mean someone else. Then I realize he means me.
“M-me?” I stammer, my throat tight.
Steel-gray eyes pin me in place, storm-rough, unflinching. His arm eases, slow, reluctant, like he has to force himself to let go. And even when he does, I still feel the ghost of his grip, seared into me, like I’ll fall if he ever steps too far away.
“Let’s get you inside.”
I nod too quickly and slip back into the diner with him behind me. The bell over the door jingles and Jim glances up from the grill.
“Reaper,” Jim scoffs. “Still alive, huh?”
“Still alive,” Reaper rumbles.
Jim’s eyes flick to me, sharp under his mustache, a silent reminder of everything he’s ever told me about staying clear of men like this.
I keep moving, pretending not to notice. My hands are restless, so I grab the coffeepot and make my way toward his booth. Coffee is a safe bet; men like him run on it.
“Can I get you something?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a miracle considering the way his presencescramblesmy brain.
His mouth lifts at the corner. Not quite a smile, but close. The smallest flicker of amusement changes his whole face, softens it for a breath. Then he leans back in the booth like a man settling onto a throne.
I pour a cup of black coffee and slide it in front of him, trying to ignore the way my fingers shake.
