Page 13 of Her Possessive Biker
I grunt. “She’s never done that before.”
We step inside. I drop the bag by the door and flick on the lights. The place is clean. Tidy. Military meets biker. Maps pinned to a corkboard, boots by the door, worn leather furniture, a wall-mounted shelf of whiskey bottles and folded flags. It smells like cedar and smoke.
It smells like me.
Cassie steps in slowly, taking it all in.
“It suits you,” she says, voice soft.
I don’t answer. Just watch her walk through my space like she belongs there.
I set the lemon bars on the counter, her fingers brushing the edge of the plate.
“Do you mind if I shower?”
I shake my head. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Towels are clean.”
She disappears behind the door a moment later, leaving the scent of rain and lemon in the air.
And I’m alone.
I drag a hand down my face.
Get it together, Gunner. You’re forty-two. She’s twenty-two.
She’s here. She’s safe. That’s all that matters.
I head to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, and try not to think about what she looks like behind that door. Wet hair. Bare skin. That curve of hip in the mirror.
Don’t be a bastard. Don’t ruin this.
She’s Ghost’s sister.
The girl I swore to protect.
I used to think innocence was fragile. That it needed to be handled like glass, gentle and distant or you’d break it.
Cassie disproves that theory.
She grew up in hell and still walks like light. She’s fire and softness, sharp and sweet, strength wrapped in vulnerability she doesn't even see.
She hasn’t let life make her hard.
I admire that. I envy it.
I crave it like a dying man craves water.
The bathroom door creaks open. I turn—and nearly forget how to breathe.
She stands there in leggings that cling like a second skin, an oversized T-shirt that hits mid-thigh, bare feet, wet hair piled in a messy bun. No makeup. No armor.
Just Cassie.
Her eyes meet mine. She sees the way I’m looking at her. Of course she does. I don’t hide it fast enough.
But she doesn’t look away.
She just crosses her arms and leans on the doorframe.
