Page 105 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
We sit in that stubborn peace.
The fire ticks.
Somewhere above us a floorboard answers cold with a small groan. The house settles its old bones.
She clears her throat. “There is something else. The notes. The feeling. The shadow you saw at the window. I do not want to be the reason anyone gets hurt, not even a little. I am tired of being fuel.”
“You are not fuel. You are a person. The men who want to turn people into accelerants will find a different fire to play with.”
She nods like she wants to believe me and is practicing.
She fiddles with the cuff again.
She opens her mouth to speak.
The hallway gives a soft scuff.
Deacon appears with his phone in his palm, eyes unreadable in the kind of way that says he is reading too many things at once.
“Cara is here,” he says. “Roads opened enough to get her up the last mile. She is at the door and asking for entry.”
Cruz’s Cara.
Rock steady, almond soap, rose oil, and the kind of smile that makes colicky babies give up and sleep.
Help in human form.
A woman who can walk into a room and make it function without moving any furniture.
My chair makes no noise when I stand.
I want to tell Marisa to stay in her seat.
I want to tell her I will handle it, but I do not tell her anything as I move to the foyer.
The latch lifts.
Cold slides in, then Cara, wrapped in a quilted coat, cheeks red, eyes bright.
“Hi there,” she says, looking past my shoulder toward the kitchen like homes know each other by smell. “The boys awake?”
“Sleeping,” I say. “Come in anyway.”
She steps over the threshold and sheds her gloves, sets a bag at her feet, and smiles at me in a way that says she is not taking any of my bad habits tonight.
Then she sees Marisa and the smile doubles.
“You must be the baker,” she says. “Good. We need cookies if I am going to do my best work.”
Marisa stands.
She looks small for one heartbeat then she is not small at all. She goes to Cara and they meet in the middle like women who havebeen waiting to put hands on each other’s shoulders without knowing it.
Cara touches her face like a mother checks for fever and then nods, satisfied.
“You look like you slept three hours last month,” Cara says. “We will fix that first.”
They turn toward the hall to fetch bottles, blankets, whatever thing women produce from thin air when a house asks.
