Page 31 of Her Dirty Biker
He’s not just protecting me anymore. I know that now. It’s in the way he looks at me. The way he touches me. The way he told me I was worth everything. I want to believe it. I want to believe him.
I’ve spent my life running from men who made promises and didn’t keep them. Who said I was special, only to leave me behind when things got hard.
Diesel’s not like them.
Still, I’m scared.
Not just of the Sons of Decimation. I’m scared of falling for a man who feels like fire and permanence, of loving someone who could get himself killed trying to protect me.
I’m staring into the dark liquid when a sound breaks the stillness—A softcreak.My head snaps up, hold my breath, and strain to listen.
Then there’s another sound. This time it’s closer. The faintest shuffle, like movement on the porch.
My heart races. I set down the coffee and move toward the window, trying to peer between the edge of the blackout curtain.
Nothing.
I creep to the front door and check the locks, just like Diesel told me. Deadbolt. Chain. Everything in place.
I back away and then the back door explodes open.
I scream.
The world blurs. Two men in black rush into the cabin, one of them wears a leather cut with that twisted Sons of Decimation patch.
“Grab her,” the one in front growls.
I don’t think, I run, but I don’t make it far before an arm wraps around my body. I thrash, kick, claw, scream loud enough to tear my throat raw. My foot connects with something, but it’s not enough. They’re stronger.
“Let me go!” I scream. “Diesel’s gonna kill you—he’ll fucking kill you!”
They don’t say a word. A cloth presses over my mouth, and my body slumps before I can fight it.
And then, nothing.
I wake up groggy. My head pounds like someone cracked it open with a brick.
Everything’swrong.
My arms are bound in front of me with zip ties. My ankles, too. I’m sitting on a hard, metal chair in what looks like a storage room, with concrete walls, exposed wires, a single buzzing light overhead. There’s a table across the room. Two chairs. A pack of cigarettes. A half-eaten bag of chips.
My throat is dry. My pulse is erratic. The fear hits me all over again. I’ve been taken.
“Look who’s awake.” The voice makes bile rise in my throat.
Guardrail steps into view, looking pleased with himself. His brown hair’s slicked back, his beard trimmed. He’s wearing a leather cut, the SoD patch stretched across his broad chest like a warning sign.
“What do you want?” I whisper.
He smiles. “We didn’t finish our conversation at the casino.”
“I didn’t start a conversation with you.”
He chuckles. “You were eavesdropping. That’s worse.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” I lie.
His expression darkens. “Bad liar.” He walks toward me slowly, crouches so we’re eye-level. “You told your biker boyfriend what you heard. And now the Kings are sniffing around things that don’t concern them.”
