Page 128 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

The boys wake and I carry them both to their mother, one in each arm, and watch her go luminous at the weight of them.

If a man cannot choose the right side of the ledger here, he deserves to live forever in the red.

Later, the house changes gear.

Cara takes the twins upstairs for naps.

Isla and Marisa argue about whether candy canes belong in batter.

They laugh like people who have earned it.

Roman steps into the hallway.

I follow.

Cruz joins without question because he is always the first to put his hands where they belong.

“We honor her choice,” Roman says. “We do not bring her violence. We do not bring this into her kitchen. But we do not let him write her name on any more forms.”

“Jonah will keep selling tricks to cowards,” I say. “Nico will keep buying them. They both believe they are safe as long as she is polite.”

Cruz chews his lip, a bad habit he only indulges when love is the stake. “We can leave this at peace,” he says, “and they will come back. Or we can make sure the road they use does not exist anymore.”

I open the cabinet with the old ledger.

Roman’s flag is already in motion, a quiet name on a quiet network.

Flags can fade.

Or they can unfurl. “We do not need to tell her,” I say. “We only need to ensure she never has to learn how close he stood to this house.”

Roman nods once. “We move,” he says. “No noise. No theater. We cut the wires he pulls and we break the hand he uses to pull them. We do it away from her windows. We do it fast. We do it clean.”

I think about the silver button and the south camera and the way the timestamp skipped three minutes without asking permission.

I think about Jonah Pike wearing a winter badge like a joke.

I think about a shell company that will never pay another invoice and a VOIP block that will go dark when a man realizes he is not clever enough to live where we do.

“Crow already confirmed the badge,” I say. “He sent a photo. It is enough for the men who balance ledgers without speeches.”

Cruz looks back toward the kitchen, where laughter still lifts like steam. “We will keep her peace,” he says, soft. “We will go get ours.”

25

CRUZ

A FEW HOURS LATER

Cara puts two bottles in the warmer and tells me to ensure we make the kind of breakfast that makes a house smell like forgiveness.

Isla is asleep under a quilt that still holds a cinnamon ghost.

Marisa is out cold at last, one hand on a baby monitor like her palm can keep the world steady.

I kiss my fingers and press them to each boy’s head, then to hers, then I pull on my jacket and follow the other two into the cold.

We ride in silence.