Page 34 of Claimed By the Bikers
“Morning, lass,” he murmurs against my neck.
“Morning.” I turn in his arms, studying his face in the golden light. Two weeks of this, and I still feel that flutter in my stomach when he looks at me like I’m some delicate flower.
Which is the problem. I’m not supposed to feel anything for these men except professional interest. I’m not supposed to notice how Atlas leaves my favorite coffee creamer on the counter every morning, or how Silas hums French songs while he works in his forge, or how Garrett’s eyes soften every time I laugh at his terrible jokes.
I’m not supposed to be falling for with my captors when for all the government knows, I’m still on duty!
“What’s got you thinking so hard?” Garrett asks, thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
“Nothing important.”
“Liar.” But he says it fondly, like my evasions are endearing rather than suspicious.
This is the dance we’ve perfected. They ask, I deflect, they pretend to accept my nonanswers while I pretend I don’t notice them cataloging every micro-expression. We’re all excellent actors, but the lines between performance and reality blur more each day.
Downstairs, Atlas sits at the kitchen table with his laptop and a stack of invoices. He looks up when we appear.
“Sleep well?” he asks, the question directed at both of us but his attention focused on me.
“Better than I have in months,” I answer honestly.
It’s not a lie. Despite everything—the kidnapping, the forced cohabitation, the complete destruction of my life—I sleep better here than I have since my mother died. Something about being surrounded by their protection, their constant presence, quiets the restless energy that’s plagued me for years.
Which should terrify me more than it does.
“Good.” Atlas returns to his paperwork, but I catch him watching me from the corner of his eye as I butter toast and arrange bacon on Garrett’s plate. “You’re working lunch shift today?”
“Eleven to four.” I settle into the chair across from him with my coffee. “Lizzy’s covering dinner so she can take her kids to some school thing.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“The restaurant is literally a stone’s throw away.”
“I’ll go with you,” he repeats, tone brooking no argument.
Two weeks, and they still don’t trust me alone. Not completely. They’ve given me freedom within certain boundaries—work, home, supervised trips into town, but I’m never truly unsupervised. One of them always knows where I am, always has eyes on me.
An hour later, Atlas drops me off at Wolf’s Den with a kiss that tastes like possession and a reminder to call if I need anything. I watch him mount his bike and disappear toward the storage facility before I push through the restaurant’s front door.
“Thank God you’re here,” Lizzy greets me, tying her apron with frantic movements. “We’ve got a bus tour coming through at noon, and I just found out the dishwasher called in sick.”
“I can handle it. How many people?”
“Thirty-five senior citizens from Phoenix, plus whatever locals show up.” She grabs her purse from behind the hostess station. “Finn’s got lunch prep covered, but you’ll be handling the floor solo until two when Jenny comes in.”
“Got it.”
The next three hours pass in a blur of orders, refills, and the kind of cheerful small talk that comes naturally after weeks of practice. The bus tour drops off sweet elderly couples asking about local history, taking pictures of the mounted wolf skin, and leaving generous tips despite ordering the cheapest items on the menu.
I’m clearing their table when I overhear Finn talking to one of the delivery drivers in the kitchen.
“Yeah, the big shipment’s coming in tonight instead of tomorrow,” Finn says, voice carrying through the pass-through window. “Atlas wants everything moved by midnight, so we’re all working late.”
“What time you need me there?” the driver asks.
“Eleven thirty. Use the back entrance, and for Christ’s sake, keep the noise down. Half the town will be asleep by then.”
My hands still on the water glasses I’m collecting. Shipment. Tonight. Back entrance. Midnight. Every instinct I’ve spent years training screams at me to pay attention, to gather details, to report what I’ve learned.
