Page 26 of Her Possessive Biker
“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 quicknote—Just grabbing flour, be right back, promise!—and 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.
