Page 84 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
I blink at him. “What does that even mean.”
“It means exactly what it sounds like,” he says, voice low enough that the banister leans in. “You do not sleep alone. You do not walk the hall by yourself wondering if the house is listening. You do not invent a worst case in the dark. You stay where my hands are, where I can get to the door first, where I can make it so you do not wake like this again.”
“You do not get to tell me where to sleep,” I say, even as my body answers him like it has better instincts than my mouth. “I should be with the boys if something happens. I should be right there.”
“You were,” he says. “And I was thirty feet away from the back door and it took me five seconds to get to you. Deacon is under the eaves with a cold nose and a bad mood. Cruz is on the floor of the nursery with a bat he will pretend is for swatting dust bunnies. The boys are covered. I want you with me.”
“Want,” I repeat, because the word pours molten through my nerves.
“Yes.” He looks at my mouth like he is starving. “Stay with me and sleep and let me do my job. If you do not like it, tomorrow you can make a list and I will read it while I drink your cold brew and complain.”
The image almost makes me laugh. I keep my chin stubborn for form. “I am supposed to listen because you make the coffee metaphor?”
“You are supposed to listen because I am asking you,” he says, and for once it is not iron, not the club president voice.
It is a man who knows how to hold a wall with one hand and offer the other.
The house gives a small groan.
I sigh out a breath and look toward the nursery one more time.
Cruz snores very softly then swallows it. Both babies sigh in unison like a choir of two.
“Fine,” I say. “For tonight. If I wake and find you replaced by a wolf in a leather jacket I am going to be very cross.”
“I will bite the wolf first.” The corner of his mouth moves.
He leads me to my room with a hand at the small of my back.
He checks the lock on the window, clicks the lamp to a low pool, sets the flashlight back on the dresser where I can grab it without thinking, and tucks the pistol under the mattress on his side.
Then he slides the shawl off my shoulders and sets it across the chair like he tends fabrics when he is not tending fires and men.
“Roman,” I say, because the quiet has turned into a bubble where words want to change shape. “Do not talk to me like I am a problem to solve.”
“Then let me talk to you like a need.” He steps in, close enough that my knees go soft, close enough that the smell of smoke and pine and something darker fills the air between us. “You are in my house. You are under my roof. You are in every thought I try to quiet. Stay with me, with us.”
I open my mouth to argue and what comes out is a different sentence. “You make it hard to run.”
“Good.” His hand comes up to hold my jaw gently, thumb along my cheek. “No arguments.”
I lift my chin into his palm because my body is treacherous and honest.
He kisses me slowly at first, then deeper, a heat that slides under my nerves and smooths them.
My fingers find his shirt and curl.
He groans into my mouth, low and dangerous, and the sound rolls through me like thunder going home.
We bump the bed with my knees.
He says my name in a way that ruins what little stubborn I have left.
I say his back like I am tasting salt.
His hands bracket my waist and drag me in.
He is careful where any man could be careless.
