Page 24 of Her Obsessed Biker
When he ends the call, he turns to me, jaw tight. “I’ve gotta go,” he says. “Club matter.”
I nod, trying to hide the flicker of disappointment blooming in my chest. “I understand.”
He steps close again, brushing my cheek with the back of his knuckles. “I hate leaving you alone.”
“I’ll be okay,” I say with a small smile. “Really. I was thinking of heading over to The Black Crown for breakfast anyway.”
That earns a tiny lift of his brow. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” To be honest, part of me hopes I’ll run into Grizz—Wolf—whatever he wants to call himself. I need answers. Even if I’m not ready to face the truth.
Rock throws on some clothes and makes sure to put his number in my phone. Then he searches my face for a long moment before he leaves. “Don’t talk to anyone you don’t trust. And if anything feels off, you call me. Got it?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I tease, winking.
His eyes flash with heat, but he grunts and grabs his cut off the hook near the door. “Don’t test me, kitty. I’ll bend you over this counter before I leave.”
I laugh, but the butterflies return tenfold.
The truth is, I wouldn’t mind one bit.
Chapter Eight
Rock
My knuckles are white on the throttle the whole ride to the clubhouse.
The things Piper told me about that bastard stepfather of hers…they’re still ringing in my ears like war drums. It’s taking everything in me not to turn my bike around, hunt the fucker down, and put a bullet between his eyes. Some men don’t deserve to be fathers.
Memories of my own father just add fuel to the fire. I know the kind of bravery it takes to escape a man like that. I just wish I could have protected Piper from her stepfather sooner.
The second he shows his face, he’s dead.
No questions. No mercy.
The clubhouse looms ahead, all dark wood, corrugated metal, and the hum of danger beneath the surface. The Savage Kings MC insignia hangs high above the entrance—a skull with wings, crowned, with crossed blades behind it. A promise and a warning to anyone who steps inside.
As I roll into the front lot, the boys are already out back, wrenching bikes and shooting the shit. Cruz is leaning over his Harley, tattoos glinting in the sun like war paint. He nods when he sees me, straightens up, and smacks Diesel on the shoulder.
“Prez.”
A chorus of greetings follows.
“Morning, Rock.”
“Lookin’ mean today, boss.”
“Everything good?”
“Good as it gets,” I grunt, killing the engine and stepping off my bike.
Cruz walks over first, a big, broad-shouldered bastard with one cloudy eye and a chipped tooth from a bar fight two years ago. He’s loyal as hell and twice as brutal.
“You heading in for church?” he asks, referring to the club meeting.
“Deadeye already inside?” I ask.
“Yup. With the rest of the top brass.”
