Page 41 of Edge
CALLIE
The scent of warm bread drifted through the kitchen, while sunshine streamed through the wide windows. I set the loaf on a cooling rack and pressed my hand absently against the swell of my belly. The baby inside me gave a slow roll in response, as if reminding me I wasn’t cooking for just four anymore.
Sometimes I still couldn’t believe this was my life. A home filled with laughter and the kind of chaos I’d once thought only belonged to other people. A husband who made me feel like I was the center of his universe, even when he was busy with driving, building weapons, or club business. And a son and a daughter—the perfect blend of us. Plus another on the way.
All this beauty just because I’d been clumsy enough to crash into Tatum’s motorcycle that night.
Padding over to the sliding glass door, I opened it and called, “Lunch! Time to come inside!”
“Just one more minute!” came the reply.
Suspicion prickled. My five-year-old was usually starving by now. If he needed more time outside when food was on the table, he was probably up to something that meant trouble.
I wiped my palms again and stepped out onto the porch, squinting into the sunlight. Then my heart nearly stopped.
Travis stood a few feet from the big oak at the back of the yard, his small frame tense with concentration. A crude target had been nailed to the trunk, a circle drawn in black marker on a piece of cardboard. And buried in the bark—a small knife, its handle still quivering.
He grinned when he spotted me, green eyes so much like his father’s sparkling with triumph. “Look, Mommy! I hit da middle!”
“Oh, for the love of—” I clutched the porch railing, torn between fainting and marching over to snatch every sharp object out of reach. “You are five years old. Five! Where did you even get that?”
He pulled the blade from the tree and held it up proudly. “My pocket knife!”
I groaned, pressing a hand to my temple. Of course he had. This was what happened when a man like Tatum was your father.
When my husband gave our son a pocket knife on his fifth birthday, I’d been extremely reluctant. But Tatum had promised to teach him to use it safely, and so far, Travis hadn’t scared the life out of me with it. Until now.
“Inside. Now.” My voice cracked with equal parts fury and panic.
“But Mommy?—”
“No buts.” My tone brooked no argument, and after a dramatic sigh, he trudged toward me. I caught his wrist before he could stuff the knife he was still holding into his pocket, confiscating it.
He let out a little huff of disappointment but didn’t argue.
“Lunch is waiting,” I muttered, steering him through the door and into the kitchen.
“Daddy’s gonna be proud of me,” he declared with the absolute confidence of a child who had never once doubted his place in the world.
I bit back a curse and hollered instead. “Tatum!”
His voice drifted from upstairs, edged with warning. “I just got her to sleep, baby. If you woke her up?—”
“If I woke up May, I’ll put her back down,” I snapped back. “But your son was throwing his knife at a tree.”
Heavy footsteps thudded against the stairs before my husband appeared, broad shoulders filling the doorway. His dark auburn hair was a little longer than when I’d first met him, his beard neatly trimmed, but the dangerous gleam in his green eyes was the same.
He took in the sight of our son, who was bouncing on his heels with pride, and me, clutching the pocketknife like evidence in a trial.
“Well?” Tatum asked, crossing his arms.
“I hit da bull’s-eye on my fourth try!” our son blurted, grinning from ear to ear.
Instead of the lecture I expected, Tatum’s mouth curved into a devastating grin.
“That’s my boy.” He ruffled his hair, ignoring my sputtering outrage. “Precision runs in the blood.”
I gaped at them both. “Are you serious right now?”
