Page 35 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

EMBER

Three days of hiding at Black Dog compound, and I’m losing my mind.

Rowan’s house is beautiful—spacious, secure, filled with the laughter of a three-year-old who doesn’t understand that his temporary houseguest is supposed to be dead. James toddles around, discovering the world one dangerous adventure at a time.

“Aunt Ember, help!” James calls from the living room, where he’s attempting to climb onto the couch using a stack of books as a ladder.

“Aunt Ember” became my name the moment I walked through their door. No questions asked, no explanations needed. Just immediate acceptance into their unconventional family.

“That’s creative engineering,” I tell him, steadying the wobbling books. “But maybe we should try the safe way?”

I lift him onto the couch, where he immediately begins arranging throw pillows into some elaborate fortress design that defies both gravity and logic.

“He gets that from his fathers,” Rowan says, appearing from the kitchen with flour dusting her hands and a smile creasing her face. “All three of them think rules are more like suggestions.”

“Smart boy.”

“Smart and fearless. Dangerous combination.” She settles onto the couch beside James, who’s now explaining his architectural vision in the serious babble of toddlers. “How are you holding up?”

“Good. Great. Just…” I search for words that don’t sound ungrateful. “Restless, I suppose.”

“That’s normal. Being dead takes some adjustment.”

“Is that your experience?”

“Personal experience. I spent months thinking I might have to disappear completely, start over somewhere new with a different name.” She pulls her legs under herself. “Scary as hell, but also kind of liberating.”

“Liberating?”

“Clean slate. No baggage from your old life, no expectations about who you’re supposed to be. Just the chance to become whoever you want to become.”

I consider this, watching James demonstrate advanced pillow-stacking techniques. “What stopped you from disappearing?”

“Fell in love with three men who refused to let me go.” Her smile turns wicked. “Sound familiar?”

“Maybe a little.”

“The difference is, I never actually died. Officially or otherwise. You’ve got advantages I never had.”

“Such as?”

“Such as nobody’s looking for you anymore. No old life to explain away, no former identity to maintain. You can literally become anyone you want to be.”

“Ember Bishop-McKenzie-Delacroix feels like a complete identity already.”

“Does it? Because you still look like the federal agent who walked into Wolf Pike six months ago.”

I glance at my reflection in the living room mirror. Same brown hair, same basic style, same clothes that could pass for law enforcement casual wear. She’s right—I look exactly like someone trying to blend in rather than someone who belongs.

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that if you’re going to be dead to your old life, you might as well look alive in your new one.”

Before I can respond, the front door opens with a bang. Evie Cross enters like a hurricane, her auburn hair catching the afternoon light, carrying a large bag over her shoulder.

“Rowan!” she calls out, dumping her bag on the kitchen counter. “Please tell me you have coffee. I’ve been driving for an hour and I’m about to commit violence.”

“Fresh pot just finished brewing.”

“You’re a lifesaver.”

James abandons his pillow fort to toddle toward Evie, arms raised in the universal toddler demand for attention. She scoops him up easily, spinning him around until he giggles.

“How’s my favorite architect?” she asks him.

“Building!” James announces proudly.

“I can see that. Very impressive work.”

Evie settles into the chair across from me with James on her lap and a steaming mug in her free hand. “How are you doing, honey? Adjusting to the dead life okay?”

“Still working on it.”

“Takes time. When I first came to Wolf Pike, I spent weeks jumping at every shadow, thinking my past was going to catch up with me.” She sips her coffee, studying my face. “Course, I had the advantage of looking completely different from my old life.”

“Different how?”

“Hair, clothes, attitude. Everything that made me Elena Delgado disappeared the day I became Evie Cross.” She sets down her mug, excitement building in her voice. “You know what you need?”

“What?”

“A complete transformation. Inside and out.”

Rowan sits up straighter. “That’s brilliant. Marcelo, the new guy at your salon, still does the full transformation work, right?”

“Everything. Hair design, style consultation, body modification, wardrobe overhaul. He could make you look like a completely different person.”

“I don’t know—”

“Come on,” Evie interrupts, standing up with renewed energy while James slides down from her lap. “When’s the last time you did anything purely for yourself? Something fun, impulsive, totally unnecessary?”

I try to remember. Before Wolf Pike, before the FBI, before my mother got sick. College, maybe? Spring break trip where I got slightly drunk and bought a sundress I never wore.

“It’s been a while.”

“Exactly. You’ve spent months being careful, being strategic, being someone else’s version of who you should be.” Evie moves toward her bag. “Time to figure out who Ember really is.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Everything. Hair color, cut, style. Clothes that actually fit your personality instead of your cover story. Maybe some ink to mark the occasion.”

“Ink?”

“Tattoos. Chase expanded Cross Brothers’ Ink Gallery into a full transformation studio. People travel from across three states just to get work done by our talented staff.”

The idea sends a thrill through me that surprises with its intensity. Tattoos. Physical transformation. Permanent marks that declare I’m not the same person who walked into that compound six months ago.

“I’ve never had a tattoo.”

“Even better. First one’s special.”

Rowan nods encouragingly.

“What would I even get?”

“That’s between you and the artist. But I guarantee he’ll come up with the right design.”

I look around the room—at James’s pillow fort, at the family photos covering every surface, at two women who’ve found happiness in complicated relationships with dangerous men. They’re both watching me with expectant faces, waiting for me to make a choice.

“When?”

“Right now,” Evie says, grabbing her keys. “Studio’s closed today, which means Marcelo has time for a private consultation.”

“What about—” I gesture toward James.

“Brick’s home. He can handle dad duty for a few hours.” Rowan stands, smoothing down her shirt. “Besides, he’ll be napping soon anyway.”

“I should check with Atlas first—”

“Honey, you’re a grown woman making personal choices about your own appearance. You don’t need permission from anyone, even the men you love.”

She’s right, of course. But after months of careful coordination, of checking every decision against security concerns and strategic implications, making an impulsive choice feels foreign.

“What if they don’t like it?”

“Then they’ll learn to like it,” Rowan says firmly. “Your body, your choice.”

“Besides,” Evie adds with a grin, “trust me when I say that men who love you will think you’re gorgeous no matter what you look like.”

Forty-five minutes later, I’m sitting in Marcelo’s private studio, staring at myself in a mirror surrounded by bright lights while he circles me like an artist evaluating a blank canvas.

“Bone structure’s good,” he mutters, lifting sections of my hair. “Skin tone can handle dramatic changes. Eyes are your best feature, so we’ll want to emphasize those.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Complete transformation. Hair color, cut, and styling. Maybe some strategic makeup techniques to change your face shape slightly. Nothing permanent besides the ink, just dramatic enough that you look like a different person.”

“How dramatic?”

“Depends on how brave you’re feeling.” He meets my eyes in the mirror. “How brave are you feeling, Ember?”

I think about the question seriously. Six months ago, I was Agent Hayes, following orders, maintaining covers, living carefully within predetermined boundaries. Today, I’m supposedly dead, carrying the child of three men I love, free to become anyone I choose.

“Pretty brave, actually.”

“Good answer.”

The transformation takes four hours. Marcelo works with the focused intensity of a master craftsman, sectioning, coloring, and cutting. Evie and Rowan provide commentary and encouragement, treating the whole process like a celebration.

“Color’s processing,” Marcelo announces, setting a timer. “Twenty more minutes, then we’ll see what we’re working with.”

“What did you choose?” I ask, though he’s kept the formula secret.

“Trust the process. You’ll love it.”

While we wait, he shows me sketches for potential tattoo designs. Page after page of artistic possibilities, from delicate florals to bold geometric patterns to realistic portraits.

“What speaks to you?” he asks.

I flip through the drawings, studying each design for emotional resonance. Roses feel too common. Celtic knots too generic. Abstract patterns too impersonal.

Then I see it.

Three interlocking circles, each containing a different symbol. Wolf, mountain, flame. Simple but meaningful, representing the three men who’ve become my world and the life we’re building together.

“That one.”

“Good choice. Where?”

I consider placement options, thinking about visibility, professionalism, and personal meaning. Finally, I point to my left shoulder blade.

“There. Where I can see it in mirrors, but it’s not obvious in professional clothes.”

“Perfect. We’ll do that after the hair reveal.”

When the timer goes off, he leads me to the shampoo station and rinses out the color. I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to spoil the surprise until everything’s complete.

“Cut next,” he says, toweling my hair dry. “This is going to be dramatic.”