Page 25 of Her Possessive Biker
They don’t.
This is Savage Kings territory. And they’ve forgotten what that means.
We park just shy of the clearing. Deadeye and Diesel flank the van. I walk ahead.
There are six of them. Two trucks. Crates already open. I clock rifles. AKs. One of them’s got a hand cannon strapped to his thigh like he thinks that makes him untouchable.
“Reaper,” one of them mutters. Calls himself Stitch, like that’s supposed to intimidate anyone. “Didn’t expect you boys so early.”
I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “Didn’t expect you to be this stupid.”
His crew tenses. Mine doesn’t. We don’t flinch when things turn ugly. We are ugly. We were born in it.
“This is Savage ground,” I say, taking another step forward. “You move product through here again, you answer to me.”
Stitch tilts his head. “You got new priorities these days, don’t you? That red heir from Bottles&Bites.”
My blood turns to fire.
Deadeye growls. “Say that again. See what happens.”
Stitch lifts both hands. “Hey. Just saying. Lot of people talking. Reaper’s getting soft.”
I shoot him once. Not in the head. Not yet. Right through the thigh. He screams. Hits the dirt.
The others freeze. Diesel trains his piece on the driver of the second truck. “Anybody else got something to say?”
I walk forward, crouch next to Stitch, and speak so quiet it’s almost gentle.
“You talk about her again, you don’t get a bullet next time. You get buried.”
He whimpers. Nods.
We take the weapons. We torch the rest. We leave the message in blood and fire, same as always.
But none of it feels like enough. Back on the road, I worry about Cassie.
What if something happened while I was gone?
If anything ever happens to her—
God help them.
Because there’s nothing I won’t burn down to protect her.
Chapter 8
Cassie
They eat the pies in less than fifteen minutes. I baked three. One peach, one apple, and one of those chocolate-pecan things I made for a fall festival once that won a ribbon. I don’t know what I was expecting—praise, maybe? A slice or two before someone politely declared they were full?
Nope.
The men of the Savage Kings are ravenous.
They dive in like they’ve been fasting for a month, forks flashing, heads tilted back in bliss. One even moans. I think it was Torque. Or maybe Ace. I don’t know all their names yet, but they’re all loud, tattooed, and absolutely shameless when it comes to dessert.
“She’s an angel,” one of them says with his mouth full.
