Page 63 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

Deacon nods then looks at the others. “Ravenwell is postponed,” he says, as if returning a conversation we did not finish. “A few days at least, until the power lines apologize. Your loaves are resting beautifully.”

He glances toward the pantry like a man proud of a patient. “We will deliver when the mountain plays nice. Bread like that improves with time. It was built for waiting.”

“So was I,” I say, and then regret it because the room hears more than I intended.

I tuck Luca closer and kiss the corner of his ridiculous mouth. He smells like warm flour and defiance.

Roman’s eyes have not left my face. He listens like a man holding himself very still in a room full of glass.

“What are their names,” he asks, not because he needs them, but because people who intend to stay begin with names.

“Gabe,” I say, tipping my chin toward the one in Cruz’s arms who is busy composing a protest about nothing. “And Luca.” Roman’s gaze flicks to each of them as their names land, and something in him eases one notch I did not know could move.

“Luca burps loudly enough to rattle windows,” I offer, because I do not want this to be all pain. “Gabe scowls like he is reading blueprints for disappointment.”

Deacon huffs, almost a laugh. “Genetic,” he says, and then looks at me like he did not mean to say it out loud and the truth surprised him.

I drink again. I set the mug down. My hands are steadier.

Luca snorts himself into a doze, mouth softening until it looks like a petal.

My eyes sting and I do not let a tear fall. I have cried in too many rooms.

“I am not asking you to forgive me,” I say, voice quiet but not small. “I am not asking you to raise them for me or pay for diapers or tell me I did the right thing. I am telling you the truth because I should have, and because the mountain made telling you now easier than the fear I built. I am telling you because every morning I woke up and did not, I liked myself less, and it is a bad thing when a mother starts disliking the woman she hands to her sons.”

Cruz’s eyes shine in the way men’s eyes do when they pretend it is smoke.

He rocks a little, kisses Gabe’s hair, pretends he needed to do both for reasons unrelated to my sentence.

Deacon’s hand moves from the table to the back of the chair, a quiet shift that says he is still with me. Roman’s mouth is the same shape and somehow also not.

He speaks at last. Dry. Controlled. Unfairly calm. “Are you planning on running again?”

I knew it was coming.

It still lands like a floor giving way under a rug.

He does not add anything else.

No if you are, I will not chase you.

No if you do, I will hunt you.

Just a line and a look.

He tests structures by leaning the exact amount required to see if they hold.

I can feel him leaning against whatever spine I have left.

My first instinct is honesty.

My second is the armor I have worn since I was old enough to be told to lower my laugh.

I balance both and settle into the place where a woman stands when she loves and fears in equal measure.

“I did not come here,” I say, and it comes out with a small laugh I cannot help. “Your mountain swallowed me and spat me back out in your driveway. I did not text you a dramatic message and then break down on your porch. I did not plan any of this.” I lift my chin, not defiant, simply firm. “I am here because I could not get anywhere else.”

Roman watches me like a man reading a document he must sign and live inside.