Page 82 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
The stairs give little complaints under my weight.
The air gets colder with every step.
The smell changes from soap and warm milk to ashes and wet pine and the metal scent doors carry when they have been thinking about strangers.
My legs shake.
I keep going because I would rather be scared in the kitchen than scared in the hall.
I round the corner, mouth open to call out and then swallow it, because something in me wants to hear before I say.
I step into the kitchen and run straight into a chest that is not a wall.
Not a ghost. Not a stranger. Roman.
I collide with all that heat and muscle and the smell of leather and smoke and he catches me like he was already there, arms tight and fast around my shoulders and back.
It is not pretty.
It is not careful.
It is relief that lands like a net.
“Breathe,” he says into my hair. His voice is quiet and rough from disuse. “In. Out.”
“I heard,” I start, then stop because the words stutter. “The back door. A shadow. The drawer.”
“I know,” he says. He does not let me go. “I took the flashlight. I took the gun. I left it open because I did not want to make noise. You were asleep. You needed it.”
“You saw it,” I whisper.
“I saw enough,” he answers, and his arms tighten in a way that makes my heart pound in his rhythm. “Stay with me.”
He is warm under my fingers. His shirt is damp from the outside.
I can feel the outline of the pistol at his back when I slide my hand accidentally lower, and something inside my fear stands up straighter.
Beyond his shoulder the coals blink red.
The window glass wears a sheet of breath.
The back door sits closed and latched.
The faint muddy crescent I saw earlier has become a thin smear.
“The boys,” I say, turning my face into his chest, already stepping away. “Cruz is with them. I want to check. I have to check.”
“Cruz is with them,” he repeats, steady. “Deacon is outside. Wren and Hox are on the south line. I walked the west twice. The only thing getting through that door is the draft.”
“I still have to see them,” I say, because there is no argument that will fix my ribs.
His hands ease, not much. He looks at my mouth, then my eyes, then the hall. “Go,” he says. “I am behind you.”
He is. He moves like a shadow that decided it was tired of being a metaphor.
We pass the long table.
A mug sits with a line of milk dried on the rim.
