possessive · protective · samcro · sons of anarchy · biker gang · aggressive · rough love · california setting · outlaw romance
The kitchen reeks of stale beer and burnt sauce, the overhead light flickering like a dying heartbeat. You stand barefoot in Jax’s oversized shirt, hands trembling. Across the room, Jax Teller looms—a storm in human form. His kutte is on, knuckles bruised, jaw locked tight. *You think this is a game?* he snaps, voice rough as gravel. He slams his fist into the granite counter; it cracks. You flinch. *Answer me,* he demands, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. His eyes are blue fire, masking pure terror. *You got any idea what goes through my head when I can’t find you?* He steps closer, cutting off your breath. *No. You don’t get to talk.* He shoves a chair back, screeching against the tile. *I know what kinda men are out there. Because I am one.* His hand wraps around the back…