Page 5 of Her Savior Biker
“Ready?” he asks over his shoulder.
No. Absolutely not. This is the worst idea I’ve had in a week full of bad ideas.
“Yeah,” I lie.
The engine roars to life beneath us, a controlled explosion of power that vibrates through my bones. Aiden giggles—actually giggles—and claps his good hand against the gas tank. For a moment, he sounds like the happy kid he was just a month ago, before his world shrank to hushed warnings and the four walls of Mason's house.
Savior pulls away from the curb slowly, like he promised. Grandmother slow. But even at this pace, the world rushes past us in a way that makes my heart hammer. I’m not used to being this exposed, this vulnerable. My arms tighten around both of them automatically.
“You okay back there?” Savior calls over the engine noise.
Am I? I’m on a motorcycle with a stranger and my three-year-old son, heading to a diner in the middle of nowhere because I have no other choice. Mason could be looking for us right now. I have eighteen dollars to my name and a car that won’t start.
But for the first time in days, I’m warm. For the first time in weeks, someone else is making the decisions. And for the firsttime since I can remember, the constant knot of fear in my chest has loosened just enough to let me breathe.
“Yeah,” I call back, and this time it’s not entirely a lie.
The road stretches ahead of us, empty and dark except for our headlight cutting through the night. Behind us, the freight yard disappears into nothing. Whatever comes next—whatever this dangerous man with the gentle hands has planned—it has to be better than sleeping in a boxcar.
It has to be.
Because I’m tired of being afraid, and something about the way Savior holds himself, the way he noticed what Mason did to Aiden, the way he asked when we last ate—something tells me that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to be afraid of him.
At least not in the way I was afraid of Mason.
This is a different kind of danger entirely.
Reyes
Theridetothesafehouse takes twenty minutes, and every second of it tests my self-control.
Shannon’s body is pressed against my back, her arms wrapped around my waist to keep herself and the kid steady. Her thighs bracket my hips, and even through denim and leather, I feel the heat of her. Every time I take a turn or hit a bump, she tightens her grip, and it’s all I can do to keep my mind on the road.
This is a complication I don’t need. A woman running from trouble is the kind of problem that gets a man killed. Smart thing would be to drop her at a shelter, maybe slip her some cash, and walk away clean.
But when she mentioned the kid being hungry, when I saw how she rocked him and whispered promises she might not be able to keep—hell. I’ve never been accused of being smart.
The safehouse sits about five miles outside Jackson Ridge, tucked back in the trees where nobody goes looking. The club uses it for business that needs to stay off the books—witnessprotection of sorts, though the kind of witnesses we deal with aren’t talking to cops. It’s not fancy, but it’s secure and stocked with everything someone might need to lay low for a while.
I kill the engine and help Shannon climb off first, then lift the kid down. He’s still half-asleep, clinging to his mother like a monkey. A normal kid would be excited about the motorcycle ride, asking a million questions. This one just accepts it all with the kind of quiet that comes from learning not to make waves.
That pisses me off more than it should.
“Come on,” I say, fishing keys from my pocket. “Let’s get you inside where it’s warm.”
The interior’s clean and functional—a real bed with decent linens, a kitchen table with four chairs, a couch that doesn’t look like it came from a dumpster. The club keeps the place stocked with basics, and Tank makes sure it stays in good condition. We’ve put up witnesses here, informants, sometimes club family when things get hot. It’s meant for people who need to disappear for a while.
Shannon steps inside and immediately starts cataloging exits, angles, potential weapons. Smart woman.
Under the warm light, Shannon looks even smaller than she did in the freight yard. Maybe five-foot-four in boots, with long golden brown braids that catch the light. Her skin is that warm mahogany brown that speaks of mixed heritage, and even exhausted and scared, she’s beautiful in a way that hollows out my chest.
Beautiful, and marked.
There’s a bruise along her left cheekbone, faded to yellow-green but still visible. Another one circles her right wrist like a bracelet. Could be from anything—a fall, an accident, rough handling during whatever sent her running.
Or someone put hands on her.
My jaw clenches before I can stop it. I don’t know what happened, but I’ve got theories. And if those theories are right, whoever’s chasing her is going to have a real bad day when I meet him.
