The Biker’s Plus-Size Obsession

Ch. 6 – The First Words

Her weight sagged against me. For a second, I thought she was going to hit the floor, but my arms were already there, holding her up.

Small. Soft. The curves of her body pressed against the hardness of mine, too close, too much, and yet I didn’t let go.

I set her down carefully, steadying her until her feet found the ground again. Her apron was ruined, smeared red from my hands. The blood wasn’t hers—it was mine, his—but it didn’t matter. It looked wrong against her, against the sweetness she carried like a second skin.

Her lips parted, trembling. “T–thank you.”

The words came out fragile, but they hit harder than I expected. Gratitude. Directed at me. Like I deserved it.

I pushed the thought away.

“You okay?” I asked, voice low, clipped. Keep it simple. Keep it cold.

She nodded too quickly. A lie. I could see the shake in her hands, the way her eyes darted like a cornered rabbit. But I didn’t press. It wasn’t my job to fix her. I’d done what I came to do—pulled her out of the fire.

Still, my eyes lingered on her.

The curls tangled around her flushed face. Her skin, pale and soft, spilling from the neckline of her shirt, now smeared with my blood. And those eyes—wide, terrified, locked on me like I was both the danger and the shield.

I hated the way it made my chest feel. Tight. Heavy.

So I looked away. At Vex.

He lay sprawled on the floor, groaning, a pathetic shadow of the man he once was. Once, people whispered his name like a curse. Now he was nothing but bones and poison.

I grabbed him by the collar, hauling his dead weight up with one arm. He cried out, a wet, broken sound, but I didn’t care. “Get the hell out of here,” I snarled, dragging him toward the door. His boots scraped the floor, his knife still abandoned somewhere beneath the counter.

When I reached the entrance, I shoved him through it, hard. He hit the pavement outside with a grunt and rolled, coughing blood. The night swallowed him whole, and I didn’t bother looking back.

Trash. That’s all he was now. Trash left to rot.

I turned, but Amara was still staring at me. Too much. Too openly. Her hands clutched the counter, her knuckles white, her breath shaking in and out like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream or cry.

And that look… that look dug under my skin. She saw too much. Saw me. And I couldn’t afford that.

I needed distance before I did something stupid. Before I reached for her again.

I stepped toward the door. My boots echoed against the tile, every sound too loud in the silence we shared. I kept my gaze forward, refusing to let myself glance back at her lips, at her curves, at her trembling body.

But just before I pushed out into the night, the words slipped out. Quiet. Firm. Sharper than I meant them to be.

“Don’t stay here alone again.”

The bell above the door jingled as I left. Cool air hit me, sharp against my skin, but it didn’t clear my head. Not even close.

I walked down the street, the roar of my bike in the distance calling me back to the life I knew. Still, even with the shadows pulling me away, the image of her—shaking, soft, blood on her apron, blood on her skin—stayed burned into me.

And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the truth gnawing in my chest:

I’d stepped in for her tonight.

And I wasn’t sure I could ever stay away again.