Page 24 of Her Possessive Biker
“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.
