Page 92 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

There’s fondness there, even when his mouth keeps its crooked grin.

The bed shifts as they climb in on either side of me, their big bodies bracketing mine, radiating heat.

Roman curls an arm around my waist, tucking me close, his lips finding the curve of my shoulder.

Deacon stretches out on my other side, his hand idly stroking up and down my thigh in lazy arcs.

I sigh, sinking between them, the safety of their weight pressing in on all sides.

They smell of sweat and leather, of smoke and salt, but under it there’s something steadying, a sense that for tonight, nothing could touch me.

Roman’s lips press against my hair again.

Deacon leans over and kisses the corner of my jaw.

I don’t even have the energy to tease them for being soft.

My eyes flutter closed, the aftershocks still rolling faintly through my body.

“Sleep,” Roman murmurs against my ear, voice like gravel soothed in honey.

And I do. I fall under fast, sated, every nerve humming but finally quiet, cradled between their bodies like they mean to keep me safe even from my dreams.

Moments later, the sound of fussing wakes me up.

Roman and Deacon are fast asleep, snoring lightly.

I step down, take my shawl and pad away from the room in soft footsteps, heading to the nursery.

Cruz’s chair is pulled close to the crib, elbows on his knees, big hands holding the bottles he must’ve just warmed.

His head lifts when I step in, eyes tired but still bright, mouth tugging into that lopsided grin of his.

“Caught me,” he murmurs, voice low so it doesn’t startle the babies. “Was about to feed them. Figured you’d need your rest after…”

He trails off, the grin deepening, his eyes flicking away with a quiet laugh that makes heat rise in my cheeks.

I shake my head and cross the room to him. “Put those down. They don’t need bottles tonight. I’ve got them.”

He hesitates, then sets the bottles aside on the dresser.

I lean into the crib, scoop both babies up—soft, warm, wriggling against me—and settle into the rocker.

The shawl slips, and Cruz steps forward immediately, draping it around my shoulders again without a word.

His hand lingers a moment, steady and sure, before he moves back to sit across from me.

The twins nuzzle against me, mouths finding what they want, the tug sharp then soothing as they latch.

My breath softens, my body relaxes, and the ache in me that’s been clawing for peace eases just a little.

Cruz leans back, watching, his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them.

“You look…right like that,” he says quietly. “Like you were made for this. For them.”

I stroke a tiny fist, my throat tight. “I don’t know if I was made for anything. But they’re here. They’re mine. That’s enough.”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving me or the babies. “More than enough.