Page 11 of Her Obsessed Biker
Chapter Four
Rock
Her heartbeat is pounding against my back.
Her arms are wrapped tight around my waist, fingers curled into the leather of my cut like she’s holding on for dear life. She’s small, soft…nothing like the women I usually let ride behind me, yet there’s something about the way she clings to me that punches straight through my chest.
I don’t let people touch me like this.
But her?
Hell.
I haven’t wanted to push someone away and pull them closer in the same breath like this in a long damn time.
She’s trouble. From the second she stepped into The Black Crown with those too-tight jeans and wide eyes, I knew it. The kind of trouble that sticks to your skin and rearranges your thinking. But even knowing what I know now…
Wolf’s daughter.
Jesus Christ.
Of all the damn people in the world.
I clench my jaw and refocus on the road ahead, the growl of my Harley eating up the distance between us and the one man who might have answers.
Grizz Calloway.
Although retired, Grizz is still very much respected, feared even. A goddamn legend around Jackson Ridge and beyond. He co-founded the Savage Kings nearly three decades ago, built the MC from blood, brotherhood, and back-alley deals. Back when this club was more than a symbol—when it was a movement. Protection, power, purpose. Grizz was the fire in the center of it all.
But he stepped down five years ago after a bullet to the spine during a gun-run gone sideways. Took partial paralysis in the left leg and a crooked limp as a parting gift. Most men would’ve disappeared after that. Not Grizz. Not only did he establish The Black Crown, the only thriving bikers’ bar in town, he also moved up into the hills and built himself a cabin with his own hands. Said he was done pulling triggers, but he still kept one loaded. Just in case.
He doesn’t wear the patch anymore, but his word still carries weight. Even now, he’s the man I call when shit gets murky. A tactician. Quiet. Dangerous. The kind of man you don’t poke unless you’re ready to bleed.
And now he’s about to find out he’s got a daughter.
Fuck.
We crest the last bend and I slow the bike, gravel crunching under my tires as the cabin comes into view—weathered wood,metal roof, a porch swing swaying lazily in the mountain breeze. A fire flickers through the living room window.
Piper’s arms loosen slightly as I kill the engine, her breath ghosting against my neck. I dismount first, then help her off the seat. She stumbles a little, and I can feel her nerves getting the better of her. I place my hands on her waist, holding her steady.
She drops her gaze, her cheeks coloring up a little.
“C’mon,” I murmur, voice low. “He’s inside.”
She nods, but it’s a small, jerky movement. Her bravado’s cracked.
I want to say something to reassure her, tell her she’s not alone in this, but fuck if I know how. So I just place a steadying hand on her back and guide her up the steps.
The door’s unlocked.
It always is.
Inside, the place smells like cedar and tobacco. The fire pops in the hearth. And there, in his usual armchair, legs stretched toward the flames, is Grizz Calloway, aka Wolf.
His thick, silver beard hangs down to the middle of his chest, braided in one spot like he forgot to finish it. His hair is pulled back in a tie, exposing a heavy brow and ice-blue eyes that have seen more death than daylight. Tattoos creep up his neck from beneath his thermal shirt. His right hand cradles a half-burned cigar, the smoke curling lazily in the air.
He looks like a Viking who traded pillaging for solitude but never put down the axe.
