Page 19 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

EMBER

“I need coffee before I deal with anything today,” Atlas mutters, running a hand through his hair as he stumbles into the kitchen. He looks like he barely slept.

“It’s already made,” I tell him, pushing a mug across the counter. “Extra strong.”

“Christ, I love you.” He takes a long sip and actually groans with relief. “Remind me why we don’t just run away to Mexico and start over?”

“Because you’d be bored out of your mind in a week,” Garrett says from the stove, where he’s flipping bacon. “Plus, Mexico’s got its own problems.”

Silas appears in the doorway, looking annoyingly awake for seven in the morning. “Problems like Los Serpientes, who’d probably find us there too.”

“You’re all rays of sunshine today,” I observe, settling onto a stool with my own coffee. The kitchen smells like home—bacon grease and coffee and the lingering scent of whatever Garrett baked yesterday. Domestic normalcy wrapped around the underlying tension of knowing we’re being hunted.

“Haven’t had enough caffeine yet,” Atlas says. “Ask me again in an hour.”

I watch him drink his coffee, noting the tightness around his eyes, the way his shoulders refuse to relax even here in what should be a safe space. “When’s the last time any of you actually slept?”

“Sleep’s overrated,” Silas says, stealing a piece of bacon from Garrett’s plate.

“Sleep’s for people who don’t have cartels breathing down their necks,” Garrett corrects, swatting at Silas’s hand. “Get your own damn bacon.”

“Yours tastes better.”

“Because I cooked it, you lazy bastard.”

“I’m not lazy, I’m efficient. Why cook when I can just steal from you?”

“Because one day I’m going to stab you with this spatula.”

“Empty threats. You love me too much to cause permanent damage.”

“Don’t test me.”

I hide my smile behind my coffee mug. Even stressed and sleep-deprived, they fall into their usual banter like putting on comfortable clothes.

It’s one of the things I love about living here—the easy familiarity, the way they can go from discussing cartel threats to arguing about bacon without missing a beat.

“What’s the plan for today?” I ask when their mock argument winds down.

“Same as every day,” Atlas says. “Run the restaurant, move supplies, try not to get shot by Mexican drug dealers.”

“Standard Tuesday agenda,” I agree.

“Pretty much.”

The restaurant’s lunch prep keeps us busy until mid-afternoon, but the tension builds like pressure in a sealed container.

Atlas snaps at a supplier over a delivery that’s twenty minutes late.

Garrett nearly takes Finn’s head off for using paprika instead of cayenne on the burger seasoning.

Silas sharpens the same knife four times before I finally walk over and take it away from him.

“Okay, that’s enough,” I announce during a brief lull between lunch and dinner service. “You’re all wound tighter than watch springs.”

“We’re fine,” Atlas says, not looking up from the invoices he’s been staring at for the last ten minutes.

“Bullshit. You’re driving yourselves crazy, and it’s making everyone else nervous.” I gesture toward the kitchen, where Finn keeps glancing our way like he’s expecting an explosion. “Lizzy’s been tiptoeing around like she’s afraid to breathe too loud.”

“We’re under a little pressure right now,” Garrett says.

“A little pressure? Silas, if you sharpen that knife any more, there won’t be any blade left.”

Silas looks down at the knife in his hands like he’s surprised to find it there. “When did I pick this up again?”

“Exactly my point.” I untie my apron and hang it on the hook. “What do you usually do when you need to blow off steam?”

“Drink,” Garrett admits.

“Break things,” Silas adds.

“Brood in my office while making lists of everything that could go wrong,” Atlas says.

“Well, it’s too early to drink, I’m not letting you break anything in the restaurant, and your brooding is making everyone else miserable.” I grab my jacket from the hook by the back door. “Come on. Show me this shooting range you’re always talking about.”

“It’s not really meant for—” Atlas starts.

“For what? Women? Waitresses? People who haven’t been officially inducted into your little boys’ club?” I raise an eyebrow. “Try again.”

“For stress relief,” he finishes lamely.

“Perfect. Because I’m stressed too. Living with three men who are wound tight enough to snap doesn’t exactly promote inner peace.”

Garrett grins. “She’s got a point.”

“Fine,” Atlas says, standing and grabbing his keys. “But don’t blame me if you don’t like loud noises.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

The walk to the range takes us through parts of their property I haven’t seen before. Past Silas’s forge and Garrett’s workshop, a dirt path winds through pine trees toward what looks like empty wilderness.

The afternoon sun filters through the branches, casting moving shadows on the ground, and for a few minutes, I can almost forget we’re being hunted.

“How much land do you actually own?” I ask as we climb a gentle slope.

“Hundred and sixty acres,” Garrett says. “We bought it piece by piece over the years.”

“That’s a lot of space.”

“Good to have a buffer between us and the neighbors,” Atlas explains. “Especially when the neighbors might ask questions about our hobbies.”

“What kind of questions?”

“The kind that start with ‘Why do I hear gunfire coming from your property at all hours?’ and end with phone calls to the sheriff,” Silas says with a grin.

“You shoot at all hours?”

“Sometimes inspiration strikes at odd times,” Garrett says. “New weapon to test, technique to practice. Three in the morning is actually a great time for long-range accuracy work—no wind, perfect visibility.”

“You’re all insane.”

“Says the woman who chose to live with us.”

“Point taken.”

The trees open up into a natural clearing that’s been converted into something seriously impressive.

Multiple shooting stations with concrete barriers, targets at various distances, and even what looks like an obstacle course, complete with pop-up targets and cover positions.

But it’s the people already here that catch my attention.

Two men I don’t recognize are setting up rifles at the furthest stations, while a younger guy with a Black Wolves patch jokes loudly with someone adjusting targets. Near the equipment shed, I spot faces that seem familiar from around town.

“Busy place,” I observe.

“Word gets around when we’re opening up the range,” Atlas says. “It’s a good training opportunity for everyone.”

“Kip, Zane,” Garrett calls out to two men examining a rifle with a scope that looks like it belongs on a space telescope. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.”

The men turn, and I recognize them from the community dinner. Kip is tall with dark hair and the kind of eyes that suggest he’s comfortable with violence. Zane has broader shoulders and an easy smile that doesn’t quite hide the alertness in his eyes.

“Heard you might have some excitement coming your way,” Kip says, clasping Garrett’s hand in greeting. “Thought we’d make sure our equipment’s ready if you need backup.”

“Appreciate the support,” Atlas says. “How’s your crew?”

“Ready for whatever. You know how it is—family looks out for family.”

“Speaking of family…” Zane’s gaze shifts to me, smile becoming more genuine. “Good to see you again, Ember. How are you settling into Wolf Pike life?”

“Learning something new every day,” I tell him honestly.

“Like what?” The question comes from the younger guy with the patch, voice carrying just enough attitude to make it a challenge. He’s maybe twenty-five, cocky in the way that suggests he hasn’t been hit hard enough yet to learn humility.

“Colton.” Atlas’s voice holds warning. “Mind your manners.”

“What? Just making conversation. Wondering what our new neighbor is learning about our little community.” Colton grins, clearly enjoying himself. “Bet it’s different from whatever big city you came from.”

“Phoenix isn’t exactly New York,” I say mildly.

“Still, big change. Going from city life to…this.” He gestures around the range. “Must be overwhelming. All these guns, all this talk about cartels and territory disputes. Probably scary for someone who’s not used to that kind of thing.”

I glance at the brothers, noting the various levels of annoyance on their faces.

“It’s definitely been educational,” I agree.

“I bet. Learning about safety protocols, maybe how to load magazines if you’re feeling adventurous.” Colton’s grin widens. “No judgment. We all start somewhere. Hell, I remember my first time holding a real gun. Scared the shit out of me.”

“Actually,” I say, moving toward the equipment shed, “I wouldn’t mind trying a few things. If that’s okay?”

“Help yourself,” Atlas says, following me over. “What catches your eye?”

I scan the available options, noting everything from basic handguns to rifles that could stop a vehicle. My fingers settle on a Glock 19, nothing fancy but reliable as sunrise.

“Good choice,” Silas says, appearing at my other side.

“Probably the only good one I’ve made since I got here,” I murmur, checking the chamber and loading a magazine with movements that are automatic after years of training.

“Which target?” Garrett asks.

I study the range, noting distances and wind patterns. “How about the blue circle at fifty yards?”

“Fifty yards?” Colton laughs. “Maybe start a little closer. That’s pretty far for—”

His words cut off as my first shot punches through the center of the target. The second opens up the hole slightly. By the fifth shot, I’ve put a grouping tight enough to cover with a quarter.

Silence fills the range like morning fog.

“Beginner’s luck,” Colton says.

“Must be.” I eject the magazine and reload. “Mind if I try something a little more challenging?”

“Like what?” Kip asks, genuine interest replacing his earlier casual attention.

“Moving targets?”

Atlas grins, finally understanding what I’m doing. “Garrett, fire up the system.”

The moving target system is more sophisticated than I expected—multiple tracks with varying speeds and patterns, some targets appearing only briefly before disappearing behind cover.

I settle into a shooting stance that feels natural after thousands of hours of repetition in the field, track the first target through its pattern, and put three rounds center mass before it disappears.

The second target gets the same treatment. Then the third.

By the time I’ve engaged eight different targets at ranges from twenty-five to seventy-five yards, the only sound is brass hitting concrete and my own steady breathing.

“Holy shit,” someone whispers.

“That’s impossible,” Colton says faintly. “Nobody’s that fast and accurate.”

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Zane asks, moving closer to examine my target results.

“Here and there. You pick things up.”

“Nobody picks up that kind of precision,” Kip says flatly. “That’s professional-level marksmanship.”

“Ember’s got an interesting background,” Atlas says carefully. “Let’s just say she’s full of surprises.”

“No kidding,” Colton mutters, all his earlier swagger gone. “I, uh…sorry about earlier. Didn’t mean to be condescending.”

“No harm done. We all make assumptions.”

“Yeah, but mine were stupid.”

“Little bit,” I agree, and he winces.

“Damn. Okay, I deserved that.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a completely different atmosphere.

Instead of jokes about the city girl who probably can’t handle mountain life, the conversation centers around technique and equipment preferences.

Kip asks about my training background, and I give him vague answers about growing up around firearms.

Even Colton eventually joins in. “Can I ask you something?” he says as we’re packing up equipment at the end of the afternoon.

“Shoot.”

“Ha. Good one.” He grins sheepishly. “But seriously—are you military?”

“Something like that.”

“Special forces?”

“Colton.” Atlas’s voice carries warning.

“Sorry. I know, don’t ask questions that aren’t my business.” Colton looks at me with new respect. “Just…glad you’re on our side.”

“Me too,” I tell him honestly.

We’re still laughing when we reach the restaurant’s parking lot, but my mood shifts when I notice the unfamiliar vehicles parked near the entrance. Three black SUVs with tinted windows, too clean and expensive for the usual crowd.

“Expecting anyone?” I ask, automatically cataloguing details—license plates, positioning, sight lines.

Atlas follows my gaze, expression hardening. “No. We’re not.”

“Engine’s still warm on the closest one,” Garrett observes, moving casually but positioning himself between me and the vehicles.

“How long do you think they’ve been here?” Silas asks, hand drifting toward the knife at his belt.

“Not long. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.” I study the SUVs, noting how they’re positioned to block the main exit routes. “Professional parking job. These aren’t tourists.”

“No,” Atlas agrees grimly. “They’re not.”

The afternoon just got a lot more interesting.