Page 4 of Her Savior Biker
“Some.” He glances back toward the dark stretch of highway. “But not enough to take a look in the middle of the night with nothing but a phone light. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”
The disappointment hits harder than it should. I knew the car was toast, but hearing him confirm it makes it real. “Right. Morning.”
He studies my face for a moment, then his voice goes gentler. “Look, if I were planning to hurt you or, God forbid, your boy, you picked the perfect spot for it. Middle of nowhere, no witnesses, no help for miles.” His gaze drops to my hand, still gripping the tire iron. “And that little piece of metal you’re hiding wouldn’t stop me for long.”
My breath catches, but he keeps talking.
“So come on. Let’s get some food before someone truly scary finds you and your kid out here tonight.”
It should terrify me, the casual way he talks about violence. Instead, it’s his honesty that gets to me. He’s not pretending to be harmless. He’s telling me exactly what I already know—that I’m vulnerable, that he could hurt us if he wanted to, and that he’s choosing not to.
That has to count for something.
When we reach the motorcycle, I stop short. It’s a beast—all black chrome and muscle, the kind of machine that announces its rider before he even shows up. The Harley’s engine ticks as it cools, and I can smell the heat radiating off the pipes.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Savior pulls a helmet from somewhere and hands it to me. “Problem?”
“I’m not getting on that thing with my son.”
“Then you’re walking ten miles in the cold.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him either way, but I catch the way his gaze flicks to Aiden. “Your choice.”
Aiden stirs in my arms, his voice small and sleepy. “Mama, I’m hungry.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Of course he’s hungry. He’s been hungry for days, and I keep telling him to wait, to be patient, to hang on just a little longer. I press my lips to his forehead and rock him gently, the way I have a thousand times before.
“I know, baby. We’re going to get you something to eat real soon, okay?”
Savior watches this exchange with something unreadable in his expression. When Aiden settles back against my shoulder, he speaks quietly.
“He rides between us. I’ll go slow.”
“Slow?”
“Grandmother slow. Scout’s honor.”
“Were you a Scout?”
His grin is sharp and unapologetic. “Hell no.”
Despite everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the sheer insanity of this situation—I almost smile. Almost.
“If you get us killed—”
“I won’t.” The way he says it, flat and certain, makes me believe him. This is a man who’s made promises he’s kept. Probably made threats he’s kept too.
I put the helmet on, fumbling with the strap. My hands are shaking, whether from cold or adrenaline or the way Savior’s watching me, I don’t know. When I can’t get the buckle to work, he steps closer.
“Here.”
His fingers brush mine as he takes over, and I feel that touch like an electric shock. His hands are warm, calloused, gentle in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him. He’s close enough that I can see the stubble on his jaw, close enough to catch that scent again—leather and motor oil and something that’s purely him.
“There.” He steps back, and I immediately miss the warmth.
Getting on the bike is an exercise in trust and terror. Savior climbs on first, then helps me settle Aiden between us. My son wakes up enough to be curious about the “motorcycle” but not enough to be scared. Three-year-olds adapt faster than adults do.
When I slide on behind them, my thighs bracket Savior’s hips, and suddenly I’m very aware of how solid he is. How warm. How the leather of his jacket feels under my palms when I have to hold on.
