Page 30 of Her Dirty Biker
It’s a twenty-minute ride into the woods. I take back roads, keep to shadows.
My cabin isn’t fancy, but it’s mine. Built it myself. One room, solid stone fireplace, a reinforced door, blackout shades, and a generator out back. There's a hidden weapons locker in the floorboards and cameras on every tree surrounding us. It’s where I go to disappear.
Tonight, it’s hers too.
I get her inside, lock everything down, and finally let myself breathe.
Willow stands in the middle of the room, taking it all in. “This is kind of amazing.”
“Safer than the safehouse,” I say, kicking off my boots.
She turns, eyes searching mine. “So now what?”
I cross to her in three long strides. “Now we breathe and figure out who the fuck leaked that location.”
She nods, but I can still see the fear in her eyes and the tremble in her hands.
“You okay?”
“I don’t know.”
I reach for her. “Come here.”
She melts into my arms like she was made to fit there. We stay like that for a long time, not talking. Just breathing.
Eventually, she tilts her head up. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Saving me. Again.”
I brush a thumb over her cheek. “I’d do it a hundred times.”
Her voice drops to a whisper. “Even if I’m not worth it?”
“Don’t say that,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. “You are, Willow. You’re wortheverything.”
She sucks in a breath.
“I know I’m not good at this shit,” I say. “But I know what I feel when I look at you. I know I’d tear the world apart to keep you safe.”
Tears fill her eyes.
“Diesel—” She breaks. Her mouth crashes to mine, hot and messy, all desperation and need. I catch her, lift her, carry her toward the bed without ever letting her go.
This isn't just about lust anymore. It’s about need and survival.
Chapter twelve
Willow
He left me a note on the nightstand. Scrawled in quick, messy writing.
Lock the door. Don’t answer for anyone but me.I’ll be back before you know it.—D
It shouldn’t make me smile, but it does. Even when fear still twists in the pit of my stomach.
I walk into the small kitchen, wearing nothing but Diesel’s shirt. The morning sun filters through the thick blackout curtains, casting warm light across the floor. I make coffee, trying to feel normal, and perch on the edge of the couch with the mug in both hands.
