Page 15 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

I want her to walk back in and tell me I misread the room, that she left a pan in the oven and needs an excuse to return.

The door gives me nothing.

The night gives me the lodge I built to hold a world that does not ask for permission to be cruel.

Cruz pads in with two plates that rattle just enough to be human.

He sets them near the sink and leans his hip on the counter where she stood.

His curls are wet at the ends, and he smells like cedar soap and smoke.

“She left,” he says, not asking, not accusing, just laying truth on the table like a knife you mean to sharpen later.

“She did,” I agree.

Deacon steps in behind him with the toolbox already closed.

His sleeves are rolled, his forearms smudged, his order restored to a temper that makes sense.

He looks at the empty chair and the apron and then at me. He is good at reading structures, including men.

“No note,” he says.

“No note,” I repeat.

Cruz looks like a man about to speak kindness.

Deacon looks like a man about to speak engineering.

I hold up a hand to stop both.

I do not want to be comforted, and I do not want a plan.

I want to stand in this quiet until it tells me what it takes to deserve the sound of her laugh.

“Go sleep,” I tell them. “We ride at six. I want the ridge clear before the storm turns to ice.”

Cruz flicks a glance at the apron then at me. “You want me to check the southern cameras before bed?”

“Yes. And lock the chicken run. Cleopatra was organizing.”

“She always is,” he says, a small smile cutting his tired face. “She has union leanings.”

Deacon sets the toolbox on a shelf with the kind of attention that makes you safer. “You will walk the rooms,” he states.

“I will walk the rooms,” I repeat.

They leave me to the work I am married to.

I make the rounds the way a man makes his bed after a night he should not have given away.

I tap the back door twice and feel the bolt answer.

I pass the hearth and stir the coals with the poker that belonged to a man who taught me what patience looks like on cold mornings.

I pick a bottle up and put it back.

I fold a dish towel with more care than a dish towel requires. I turn off a light that should be off.