Page 11 of Her Savior Biker
“Okay.”
He heads outside, and I move to the window, ostensibly to check on the pancakes but really to watch him walk across the yard. He moves with that same controlled grace I noticed before, like a predator who knows exactly how dangerous he is but chooses to keep it leashed.
The shed’s old, and the door sticks. He puts his shoulder into it, muscles flexing under the henley as he forces it open. When he bends to search through a toolbox, the fabric pulls tight across his back, and I have to grip the spatula to keep from doing something stupid.
“Mama, pancakes stink.”
Shit, they’re burning. I flip them quickly, cursing under my breath. When I look up again, Savior’s heading back, new wrench in hand. He catches me watching through the window and raises an eyebrow. My hands still on the spatula, and I turn back to the stove like I’ve been caught doing something illegal.
He comes back in without comment, returning to work under the sink. I finish the pancakes, hyperaware of every soundhe makes—the clink of metal on metal, the quiet curse when something doesn’t cooperate, the way his breathing changes when he has to strain to reach something.
“There.” He straightens, turning the faucet handle. Water flows clean and steady, no drip. “Should be good now.”
“Thank you.” I gesture toward the table where I’ve set plates. “Stay for breakfast? It’s the least I can do.”
He hesitates, weighing options. The smart thing would be to leave, maintain that professional distance he’s been trying so hard to keep.
“Please,” I add, and something in my voice makes his resolve crack.
“Alright. Just for a few minutes.”
We sit around the small table—me, Aiden, and this dangerous man who’s somehow become our protector. Aiden chatters about his coloring book while we eat, and for a moment, it feels almost normal. Like we’re a family sharing breakfast on a lazy Saturday morning.
But under the surface, the air between us is so charged it’s hard to breathe. Every time Savior passes the syrup or reaches for his coffee, I’m aware of his hands. When he laughs at something Aiden says, my gaze keeps landing on his mouth.
This is dangerous territory, and I know it. But sitting here in the morning light, watching this hard man be gentle with my son, I can’t bring myself to care.
For the first time in three years, I want something more than just survival. And that terrifies me more than anything Mason could do.
The next day, Savior shows up at noon in a black pickup truck that’s seen better years but purrs like it’s well-maintained. I’ve been ready for an hour, changing clothes twice and telling myself it doesn’t matter what I wear to a job interview at a biker bar.
“Ready to meet Red?” he asks when I climb into the passenger seat with Aiden.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The drive to The Black Crown takes twenty minutes. I spend most of it trying not to notice how Savior’s hands look on the steering wheel, or the way his jaw flexes when he’s thinking. Aiden chatters from his car seat about everything he sees out the window, and Savior actually responds, pointing out a hawk circling overhead and a train in the distance.
It’s so normal it hurts.
The Black Crown looks exactly like what it is—a biker bar that doesn’t apologize for existing. Weathered black wood, neon beer signs, and a rusted chopper welded to the roof like a battle flag. The kind of place I would have crossed the street to avoid a week ago.
Now it might be my salvation.
Red—Reyna Vasquez—is a force of nature packed into five feet and four inches of pure attitude. Dark hair streaked with actual red, ink covering both arms, and eyes that see everything. She takes one look at me and Aiden and seems to understand the situation without explanation.
“You can start Monday,” she says after a ten-minute conversation that feels more like an evaluation than an interview. “Day shift, eleven to six. Tips are decent if you don’t take shit from the customers.”
“I don’t take shit from anyone,” I say, and mean it.
Red grins. “I like her already.”
The drive back to the safehouse is quieter. Aiden falls asleep in his car seat, and I steal glances at Savior’s profile. Strong jaw, straight nose, those pale eyes focused on the road ahead. When we pull into the driveway, I make a decision that’s probably stupid but feels necessary.
“Stay for dinner?” The words come out before I can second-guess them. “It’s the least I can do. You’ve done so much—”
“You don’t owe me anything, Shannon.”
“I know. But Aiden likes you, and I… I’d like the company.”
