Page 10 of Her Obsessed Biker
And for one, long second, I forget everything.
Why I’m here. What I’m running from.
All I can think about is him.
Rock.
This man who looks at me like he wants to ruin me and protect me in the same breath. My back hits cold metal, my hand clutching the side mirror. My heart is thundering so hard it hurts.
I should shove him back.
I should tell him to go to hell.
But instead, I blurt the first words that come to my head. “I’m looking for someone.”
His body stills.
The heat between us doesn’t disappear, but it stops moving, suspended in the air like a match waiting to be struck.
His expression shifts. Barely, but I see it. “You’re what?”
I swallow hard. “I came to Jackson Ridge to find someone. His name’s…Wolf.”
The effect is immediate, like I dropped a bomb at his feet.
Rock’s entire body stiffens, his eyes immediately losing that smoldering gleam, replaced by something darker. Sharper. His jaw tightens, and the heat between us goes from molten to ice in seconds.
He pulls back just enough to study me, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Why?”
I hesitate. Then, slowly, I reach into the inside pocket of my jacket. His gaze never leaves my hand.
I pull out the letter. Worn and yellowed with age. Folded and refolded a hundred times. My mother kept it for over two decades. I kept it because it’s the only lead I have.
I hold it out to him.
He snatches it, not roughly, but with a swiftness that tells me he’s on edge. His eyes scan the faded ink, the looping handwriting.
Then his jaw goes hard as stone.
“It’s dated twenty-two years ago,” I say slowly, watching his face. “Before I was born.”
Rock’s hands curl around the edges of the letter like he’s holding something too dangerous to rip, too meaningful to toss.
I look up at him, my heart hammering so loud I wonder if he can hear it.
“I think he might be my father.”
For a long, stretched beat, he doesn’t speak. He just continues to look at the letter. Then he looks at me, and I catch a flicker of something in his eye. But it’s gone so fast I can’t put a name to it. Anger. Shock. Something deeper that he slams the door on almost instantly.
He folds the paper once, slips it back into my hand, and then grabs my wrist. His grip is firm, leaving no room for argument. “You’re coming with me.”
My breath catches. “What? Where—”
“You want answers?” His eyes cut into mine, all fire and steel. “Then you ride with me.”
He pulls me toward his bike, not yanking, but leading, like it’s already been decided.
Like I stopped having a say the moment I mentioned Wolf.
