Page 25 of Haunted By the Storm
She shrugs, climbing out of bed. "I like him. He's nice to you, and he doesn't talk to me like I'm a baby."
I smooth her tangled hair, wondering when my daughter became so perceptive. "Well, there are some other children downstairs having breakfast. Would you like to meet them?"
Her eyes light up. "Yes! Are they my age?"
"I think one is a little younger than you, and one is a bit older. Their names are Sera and Ruby."
This seems to satisfy her, and she scampers off to the bathroom to brush her teeth. I take the opportunity to change into jeans and a simple t-shirt and pull my hair back into its usual ponytail. Looking in the mirror, I'm relieved to see I look relatively normal; tired, maybe, but not as shaken as I feel.
When Emily emerges from the bathroom, dressed in a purple shirt with butterflies and her favorite jeans, we head toward the communal kitchen. The clubhouse is surprisingly quiet, with only a few members lounging in the main room. They nod respectfully as we pass, a stark contrast to the intimidating figures they cut with their leather and tattoos.
The kitchen is warm and inviting and smells of coffee and syrup. Octavia, who I met briefly last night, is at the stove flipping pancakes while two girls sit at a large wooden table, chatting animatedly. A tall, heavily tattooed man I recognize as Digger stands nearby, nursing a cup of coffee.
"Good morning," I say as we enter.
The girls look up, curiosity bright in their eyes. The younger one; she must be Sera, bounces in her seat.
"You're Emily!" she exclaims. "I'm Sera! I'm five! Do you like princesses?"
Emily smiles, immediately drawn to the enthusiastic child. "I do. I'm seven. Do you like butterflies?"
And just like that, they're chatting like old friends. The older girl, Ruby, I assume,watches them with the tolerant amusement of a pre-teen forced to endure younger children's enthusiasm.
"Ruby, why don't you show Emily where the juice is?" Octavia suggests. The girl nods, sliding off her chair to lead Emily to the refrigerator.
Digger moves toward me, offering a nod in greeting. "Sleep okay?" he asks.
"Well enough," I reply, accepting a mug of coffee from Octavia. "Thanks for everything you all are doing. I know this is an imposition."
He waves off my gratitude. "Not an imposition. You're family." At my raised eyebrow, he elaborates: "Blaze is a prospect, which makes you club adjacent. We protect our own."
There it is again, that sentiment that seems to be the club's unofficial motto.We protect our own. I'm not sure when Emily and I became "their own," but I can't deny the comfort it brings.
"Still," I say, "I appreciate it."
Octavia sets a plate of pancakes on the table just as the girls return from the refrigerator, Emily carrying a carton of orange juice like it's precious cargo.
"Breakfast is served," Octavia announces. "Eat up before the rest of the brothers smell food and descend upon us."
The girls giggle, and I find myself smiling despite everything. There's something undeniably domestic about this scene; kids at the breakfast table, adults chatting over coffee. It's so normal it almost makes me forget where we are and why.
"Storm was looking for you earlier," Digger says casually as we watch the children eat. "Said he had some information to share when you're ready."
My heart does a little skip at his name, which is ridiculous. I'm not some teenager with a crush. "Did he say what kind of information?"
"Something about your ex. They've been gathering intel."
The reminder of why we're here dampens my brief moment of normalcy. "Where is he now?"
"Garage, probably. He usually tinkers with the bikes when he's thinking hard about something."
After making sure Emily is content with her new friends, I leave the kitchen in search of Storm. The clubhouse seems larger in daylight, with hallways branching off the main room in several directions. I follow the sound of metal on metal until I reach what must be the garage.
It's a large space filled with motorcycles in various states of repair, tools hanging on the walls, and the pervasive smell of oil and gasoline. Storm is at a workbench, his back to me and shoulders hunched as he focuses on something in front of him.
I take a moment to study him unobserved. He's wearing a white tank top that shows off muscular arms covered in tattoos. His dark hair is pulled back in a messy bun at the nape of his neck. His jeans hang low on his hips, worn in all the right places. Even from behind, there's no denying he's an impressive specimen.
"Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to come in?" he asks without turning around.
