Page 50 of Racer

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not leaving,” Racer said. “Not without Emily. Or our kid.”

You could’ve heard a damn pin drop.

“What?” Mason barked.

“Our kid?” Kane repeated, one brow raised.

I cleared my throat, cheeks flushing. “Uh…yeah. I just found out. That’s what the, um, bathroom detour was about.”

Mason groaned and dropped his head back against the pillow. “You’re telling me I just woke up from a fucking coma to find out my sister’s in love, engaged to a biker, and pregnant?”

I stepped closer to the bed and kissed his temple. “You’ll get used to it. He’s not so bad once you stop thinking about killing him.”

Jude growled low in his throat. “That better not have been your plan.”

Kane slapped a hand on Jude’s shoulder. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s give these two a minute before you end up making more enemies.”

With a final squeeze of my waist, Jude followed Kane out of the room.

Mason stared at me, silent for a long moment.

“You really love him?” he finally asked.

“I do,” I whispered.

“Then I guess I'd better get better fast.” He sighed. “Sounds like I have a fuck ton of big-brother duties to catch up on.”

I laughed and squeezed his hand. “Definitely.”

EPILOGUE

RACER

Five years later

The smell of hickory smoke drifted in the breeze, curling through the branches of the big oak tree at the edge of our yard. Sunlight filtered through summer leaves, dappling the gravel driveway in patches of gold. The sizzle of burgers on the grill and the sound of laughter from the backyard rippled across the open space.

Emily and I had built a home on a few acres at the edge of town, just a couple of miles from the farm I’d grown up on right outside Old Bridge. My brother, Jack, owned it now, running it with his wife and three kids. Emily and Marie had become good friends, but I loved how tight my woman was with the other Iron Rogues’ old ladies. It only knitted our family even closer.

I was crouched beside a sleek black-and-red go-kart parked just in front of the garage, one knee on the warm pavement, both hands steady as I buckled in the most important driver I’d ever trained. My son, Archer—four years old today—was already bouncing in his seat, legs too short to reach the pedals withoutthe custom rig Axle built last week. The kid looked like he was ready to win the Daytona 500.

“Steering tight?” I asked, tugging the straps snug across his chest. His Iron Rogues ball cap sat backward on his head, and a streak of chocolate cake still smudged the corner of his mouth.

He gave a serious nod, biting his bottom lip the way he did when he concentrated. “Ready to ride, Daddy.”

“Alright then,” Axle said, wiping his hands on a shop towel. “Let’s fire this thing up.”

My brother-in-law had grease under his fingernails and his boots planted wide, looking half proud, half exasperated—as though he couldn’t believe he was helping a kid who just learned to spell his own name get behind the wheel of a tiny machine capable of hitting forty. If I hadn’t added a governor to keep it from going that fast.

Jack came around the corner from the backyard and chuckled. “Just like his dad. You’ve been riding bikes since you could balance one. And you were racing at what? Fourteen?”

“To his mother’s terror,” my mom added as she and my dad joined us.

Grinning, I straightened, rolling my shoulders as the engine whirred to life and Archer let out an excited whoop. Before I could step back, I heard it—the soft click of a camera, followed by a voice that spread warmth through my entire body.

“My boys,” Emily murmured, barefoot on the driveway as she held our one-year-old daughter, River, on her hip, snapping a photo with her phone.

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