Page 4 of Her Possessive Biker
“We’ve got a charity ride coming up,” he says, like an afterthought. “First weekend of September. Raising money for the medical facility. You should come.”
I blink. No way. He can’t mean that. Notme. Guys like him don’t ask out girls who smell like fryer grease and go home to empty apartments. Maybe he’s just being polite. Maybe I’m just an idiot for even thinking he’s serious.
Still… the way he’s looking at me, steady and unflinching, makes my stomach turn inside out. No, it has to be a mistake. Except what if it isn’t?God, Cassie, get a grip.
“You want me at a biker thing? With children’s cancer as the theme?”
He shrugs, broad shoulders rolling like he’s not upending my whole world. “There’ll be pie.”
My mouth runs ahead of my brain. “Oh. Well then. Obviously.”
Sarcasm, my only shield. If I don’t hide behind it, I might actually start hoping.
The corner of his mouth kicks up again. “Night, Angel.”
“Goodnight, Reaper.”
I slide into my truck, the night warm and sticky, the kind that makes you wish for rain that never comes. The engine coughs twice before it catches, and I pull onto the empty street.
Headlights follow. Steady. Distant. A motorcycle.
I should be nervous. Instead, calm settles over me, strange and certain. Like theshadowbehind me means I’msafe.
Chapter 2
Holt
“You back from your stalking, Reaper? We need you here to discuss business.”
Deadeye lifts his beer from his stool at the edge of the bar, eyes sharp beneath the low lights.
Diesel snorts around a mouthful of fries, licking grease from his fingers. “We all know where he was. Bottles & Bites. Stalking thatyoung thing.”
The bar roars, all teeth and whiskey breath, a couple of prospects banging the counter like it’s the best damn joke they’ve heard all week.
My jaw ticks. Calling Cassie thatyoung thingshouldn’t sit right with me.Doesn’t. But this is how it works around here. They mean no harm. It’s just how bikers talk—rough, crass, and louder than they need to be. These men arebrothers.And brothers mock what they suspect might actually matter.
I grunt, dragging my cut into place. “Better a stalker than whipped by a librarian in three days flat.” My eyes cut to Deadeye. “Fastest leash I’ve ever seen.”
That gets them going louder. Beer sloshes. Voices rise.
Deadeye doesn’t bite. He just smirks, slow and steady. “Best leash I ever wore.”
I huff a breath through my nose, but my blood’s already shifting gears. My brothers can joke. They can nudge. They have no idea.
Because not many of them know what itfeelslike.
People call meReaperbecause I’ve walked too many men to their graves.
They call meHolt Gunner, the name my mother gave me. Cancer took her before I was old enough to understand the hole she’d leave behind.
They call meRoad Captainbecause I lead rides through hell and back for the Savage Kings.
I answer toallof it.
What I don’t usually answer to? The pull in my chest every time I lay eyes on the girl with the red hair and freckles behind the diner counter.
Cassie Jean.
