Page 42 of Claimed By the Bikers
The sun hasn’t clearedthe mountains when I finish the last knife order, sliding the custom blade into its leather sheath and setting it aside to cool.
Four hours in the forge, and my hands are steady again, the familiar rhythm of hammer on steel working its usual magic. There’s something about creating things that centers me, reminds me why I chose this life over the chaos I left behind in New Orleans.
Coffee first, then I’ll check on our girl. Knowing Ember, she’s probably already awake and trying to make sense of everything that happened last night. The FBI wanting her to frame us, choosing our side over theirs, finally admitting this ramshackle family means something to her. Big decisions tend to keep people awake.
I push through the kitchen door, reaching for the coffee pot, when I notice Garrett’s bedroom door standing open. Empty bed, sheets still rumpled but cold. Interesting.
Atlas’s room is the same. The door ajar, bed unslept in. Either they’re both up early, or our little federal agent couldn’t sleep and went exploring.
The garage light is on, spilling yellow across the concrete floor. I find her there, sitting cross-legged on a crate, studying the wall map Atlas uses to track supply routes. She’s wearing one of my T-shirts. When did she steal that?
“Bonjour, beautiful,” I say softly, not wanting to startle her. “Couldn’t sleep?”
She looks up, green eyes bright despite the early hour. “Too much to think about.”
“Mmm.” I lean against the doorframe, taking in the picture she makes surrounded by our operation. Maps, supply lists, medical equipment inventory—the whole network spread out for her to see. “Finding anything interesting?”
“You’re really helping people.” It’s not a question, but there’s wonder in her voice like she’s still processing the reality of what we do.
“Were you expecting something else?”
“Honestly? Yes.” She gestures at the map, where red pins mark veteran housing, green ones show family drop points, blue ones indicate medical supply caches. “The FBI briefing made it sound like you were running drugs and weapons. This looks more like…humanitarian aid.”
“Disappointed?”
“Relieved.” She slides off the crate, padding barefoot across the concrete to where I’m standing. “It’s easier to betray criminals than it is to betray good men.”
“Who says we’re good men?” I reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her skin. “We break laws,chérie. Lots of them.”
“For the right reasons.”
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
“So is the road to heaven, apparently.” She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the soap she used in Garrett’s shower, the faint scent of my T-shirt clinging to her skin. “Why do you do it? Really?”
“Because the government failed these people first.” I trail my fingers down her neck, feeling her pulse quicken under my touch. “Because sometimes being legal and being right are two different things.”
“That’s Atlas’s answer. What’s yours?”
She’s learning to read us individually, not just as a unit. “My answer is more personal.”
“How personal?”
I study her face, trying to decide how much truth she can handle. But if she’s going to be part of this family, if she’s really chosen our side over theirs, she deserves to know what drives us.
“I had a sister once. Céleste. Two years younger than me, and the only family I had left after our parents died.”
Ember goes still against me, sensing the shift in my tone. “Had?”
“She was killed in New Orleans. Nineteen years old, working as a nurse in the free clinic in the Quarter. Beautiful girl, had her whole life ahead of her.” I can still see Céleste’s smile, hear her laugh when she’d tease me about my terrible French accent. “Adrug dealer named Marcel Thibodaux decided she’d seen too much, knew too much about his operation. So he made sure she couldn’t talk.”
“Mon dieu,” Ember breathes, the French slipping out before she catches herself.
“The police couldn’t touch him. Too connected, too many officials on his payroll. So I handled it myself.” I remember the weight of the knife in my hand, the look in Marcel’s eyes when he realized his money couldn’t save him. “Then I ran. Ended up in Wolf Pike, where Atlas and Garrett took in a fucked-up Cajun kid with blood on his hands.”
“They became your brothers.”
“They became my family. Real family, the kind that fights for each other instead of abandoning each other when things get difficult.” I cup her face in my hands, studying those green eyes that see too much. “Just like you’re family now.”
