Page 7 of The Biker's Single Mom
"And the ones without moving parts?" she asks softly. "The broken things that can't be fixed with tools?"
I look away, out toward the dark tree line. "Those aren't my specialty."
Her hand touches my forearm, just a brush of fingertips against inked skin, but it burns like a live wire.
"Carlo will come himself," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "When his men fail, he'll come. And he'll bring enough firepower to take what he wants."
I turn to her, close enough now that I can see the pulse beating at the base of her throat. "Let him try."
"You don't know what he's capable of."
"And he doesn't know what I'm capable of." I hold her gaze, letting her see the truth of it in my eyes. "No one is taking your daughter."
The promise lands between us with the weight of an oath. Her eyes widen slightly, and for a second, I think she might step away. Instead, she sways toward me, just a fraction.
"I can't ask you to—"
"You didn't ask," I cut her off. "I'm telling you how it is."
"I've learned not to believe in white knights," she says.
"Good." I let my eyes trail over her face, lingering on her mouth before forcing myself to step back. "Because I'm not one. I'm just a man who keeps his word."
Chapter 3 – Daisy
I wake to the sound of laughter. Violet's high, sweet giggle followed by a low rumble that takes me a moment to place.
For a few seconds, I lie perfectly still, caught in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. The unfamiliar bed beneath me, the sheets carrying a faint scent of laundry detergent.
I slip from the bed, smoothing down my borrowed t-shirt. One of the women, Florence I think, brought clothes last night after I'd put Violet to bed.
I follow the sounds to the kitchen, but pause in the doorway, arrested by the scene before me.
Daniel stands at the stove, his broad back to me, spatula in hand. Violet sits on a stool at the counter, legs swinging, watching him with complete fascination as she clutches Mr. Wheels in one hand.
"But why do they call you Steel?" she asks. "Is it because you're strong?"
Daniel flips what looks like a pancake before answering. "It's because I don't bend easy."
"Oh." Violet considers this with five-year-old seriousness. "I think it's a good name. Better than Daniel. Daniel is the boy in my class who eats glue."
That rumbling laugh again, rusty like it doesn't get much use. "Thanks. Good to know I rank above glue-eaters."
Something twists in my chest watching them. It's a snapshot of normalcy we've never had, a glimpse of what it might be like to have a man in our lives who isn't a threat.
I must make some sound, because Daniel turns, catching me in the doorway. His eyes move over my body before snapping back to my face.
"Mommy!" Violet waves enthusiastically. "Mr. Fix-It made pancakes shaped like motorcycles!"
I step into the kitchen, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the shirt. "Did he? That's pretty impressive."
"Coffee's fresh," Daniel says, turning back to the stove. His voice is gruffer than it was with Violet. "Mugs in the cabinet to your left."
I pour myself a cup, hyperaware of his presence just a few feet away.
"These are amazing," I say after examining the motorcycle-shaped pancake he slides onto a plate for me. "Hidden talents, Mr. Fix-It?"
The nickname earns me a scowl, but there's no real heat behind it. "Club tradition. Sunday mornings, specialty pancakes."
