Page 64 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
His eyes say things his mouth cannot, not yet.
Hurt. Fury. Relief. Long patience.
I hold his gaze and refuse to drop mine first.
“As for running,” I continue, and I swear the lodge leans in to hear me, “I am not making plans beyond tonight. My sons need warmth and a room that is not moving and two more sets of hands I trust. I will sleep. I will feed them. I will set an alarm for three a.m. that neither of them will respect. I will wake mean and sweet at the same time. Somehow, I will get my car back. When the power lines apologize, I will go to Ravenwell with my bread. If you want to stand next to me when the judge cuts the first slice, fine. If you want to stay here and glower at a pipeline schematic, also fine.”
Cruz’s mouth curves.
Deacon pretends to be offended for the sake of the joke and fails.
Roman does not smile.
His gaze flicks to Luca, to Gabe, back to me. Waiting for the part I did not say.
“And what I owe you,” I add, because this is the place where I must hold my own edge, “is what I have given. The truth. The babies’ names. The plan for bread and sleep. You are owed that because you asked with heat and steadiness, and because I am tired of writing the first line of a text and deleting it with my thumb. You are not owed my family’s mess tonight. You are not owed a speech about what kind of woman I was trained to be and the kind I turned into when I got hungry. You are not owed myshame.” I tip my head toward the carved rules over the door. “I am not lying. I am not abandoning. I am answering exactly what you asked.”
Cruz exhales softly, a sound that has praise in it.
Deacon’s eyes narrow, not in suspicion but in thought, like a man watching a bridge settle true.
Roman goes still in a different way, the kind of still where wolves change their minds about whether to run or wait.
The side of his mouth that has never seen mercy considers it.
Luca hiccups and startles himself awake.
He lets out a one-syllable protest that sounds like hey.
I cannot help it. I laugh. The tiniest laugh.
The room changes shape by a degree.
“I did not come here intentionally,” I repeat, softer, because this is the part of the sentence that protects the rest of me. “And I do not owe you more than what I have said.” I do not lift my chin higher, I do not fold my arms, I do not do any of the things my stepbrother taught me make men angry when women do them.
I just stay.
With my baby in my arms and heat on my cheeks and sugar sleeping in a pantry because someone I hurt decided to keep it safe for me.
Roman looks at me like a man who knows a long game when it stands in front of him pretending to be a short one.
His eyes say he sees the shine and the armor, the girl and the mother, the flight and the landing.
12
CRUZ
The lodge wakes the way good bread does, slow and warm from the center.
I am up before the light gets brave, because babies do not read clocks and my body still remembers the rhythm of a small cry in the dark.
First things first. I thumb my phone open and videocall Isla.
She answers from Abuela’s kitchen in town, hair a soft storm around her face, cheeks pink from heat and the kind of smug only a five-year-old can pull off.
“Papá, I’m drinking chocolate and Grandma put cinnamon on top,” she announces, mug held so close the camera fogs. Behind her, Abuela waves a spoon like a scepter. Somewhere off screen, Abuelo mutters about the plows like they are old rivals. The beagle snores under the table.
“Show-off,” I tell my girl, grinning so wide my face feels new. “Give Abuela a kiss from me. Stay on for a minute, mi vida. I am making my rounds.”
