Page 41 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

TWO YEARS LATER

Caleb’s balance bike crashes through the hay bales I spent twenty minutes arranging around the archery range. His delighted laughter echoes across our expanded property while Connor shakes his head with the disapproving expression of a very serious two-year-old.

“Caleb, non!” Connor calls out in the mixture of English and French that’s become our household language. “Mama’s targets!”

“It’s okay, Connor,” I tell him, ruffling his dark hair as he pedals his bike over at a much more reasonable speed. “Daddy Silas can fix the targets.”

“Daddy Silas busy.” Connor points toward the forge where his father is working with a group of local teenagers, teaching them metalworking skills through our new apprenticeship program.

“Then Daddy Garrett will fix them.”

“Daddy Garrett building swings.”

True. Garrett’s been constructing an elaborate playground behind the restaurant, complete with swings designed to accommodate children who inherited their fathers’ love of dangerous activities.

“Then Daddy Atlas—”

“Daddy Atlas doing numbers.”

Also true. Atlas spends most mornings in his expanded office, managing the books for three different businesses and the complicated logistics of our medical supply network.

“Then Mama will fix the targets after we practice.”

Connor nods approvingly while Caleb attempts to ride his balance bike up a tree. The personality differences that Silas predicted in utero have only become more pronounced—Connor careful and thoughtful, Caleb determined to find new ways to give us all heart attacks.

“Caleb Michael Bishop-McKenzie-Delacroix, get down from there!”

He grins at me from four feet off the ground, balanced precariously on a branch that definitely wasn’t designed to support a toddler and a balance bike. “Look, Mama! Flying!”

“You’re not flying, you’re falling waiting to happen.”

But before I can worry too much, Atlas appears, plucking our adventurous son from the tree and setting him safely on solid ground.

“What have we discussed about bikes and trees?” Atlas asks with mock seriousness.

“Trees for climbing, bikes for riding,” Caleb recites dutifully.

“And mixing them?”

“Makes Mama’s hair turn gray.”

“Exactly.” Atlas kisses the top of Caleb’s head, then moves to do the same to Connor, who’s been watching this exchange with the kind of superior expression that suggests he would never attempt such foolishness.

“Ready for archery practice?” I ask Connor, who’s been begging to learn since he was old enough to walk steadily.

“Yes! Can I use the big bow?”

“You can use the little bow designed for people who are two years old.”

“But Daddy Garrett uses the big bow.”

“Daddy Garrett is older than you and has considerably longer arms.”

Connor considers this logic while I retrieve his child-sized bow from the equipment shed. We started the youth archery program six months ago as part of our community outreach expansion. Turns out teaching kids to focus and follow safety protocols translates into better behavior at school and home.

“Stand here,” I instruct, positioning Connor at the line marked for beginning archers. “Feet apart, shoulders straight, remember what we practiced.”

He nocks his arrow with the careful concentration that characterizes everything he does. Unlike his brother, who approaches life like it’s a series of stunts waiting to be attempted, Connor treats each activity as a puzzle requiring careful solution.

“Breathe in, draw back, aim, breathe out, release.”

His arrow flies straight and hits the outer ring of the target. Not bad for a two-year-old who can barely reach the bowstring.

“Good shot!” I praise him. “Want to try again?”

“Again!”

We practice for twenty minutes while Caleb attempts to teach his balance bike new tricks that definitely violate several laws of physics. By the time Connor’s shot his tenth arrow, a small crowd has gathered to watch.

Evie Cross sits on the fence with her four children, all of whom are fascinated by our boys’ fearless approach to life. “Connor’s got natural form,” she calls out.

“Gets it from his mama,” Garrett says, emerging from his workshop with sawdust in his hair. “That woman can put an arrow through a quarter at fifty yards.”

“That woman learned from the best teachers,” I reply, watching Connor attempt his eleventh shot.

“Mais oui, we are excellent teachers,” Silas agrees, approaching with two of his apprentices in tow. “Connor, show these big boys how archery is done properly.”

Connor beams under the attention, drawing his bow. The arrow hits closer to center this time, earning applause from his growing audience.

“My turn!” Caleb announces, abandoning his bike and racing toward us.

“Your turn requires less running and more listening to safety instructions,” I tell him.

“I listen!”

“You listen to the parts you like and ignore the parts about not climbing trees with bicycles.”

“Trees are for climbing,” he says matter-of-factly, as if this explains everything.

“Not while you’re riding a bike.”

“Why?”

The eternal question. At two years old, Caleb has discovered that “why” can extend any conversation indefinitely and generally results in adults making faces that entertain him endlessly.

“Because gravity doesn’t care about your sense of adventure,” Atlas explains, lifting Caleb to hip height. “It will drop you and your bike without regard for your feelings.”

“What’s gravity?”

“The thing that makes you fall when you climb too high.”

“I don’t fall.”

“You haven’t fallen yet. There’s a difference.”

“What’s the difference?”

I intervene before Atlas gets trapped in an endless loop of toddler logic. “The difference is that careful people get to try more fun activities because they don’t spend time in the hospital.”

This resonates with Caleb’s desire for maximum fun. “Can I shoot arrows?”

“Can you follow safety rules?”

“Yes!”

“All the safety rules? Even the boring ones?”

“Yes!”

I hand him the small bow designed for his age group. “Show me standing position.”

He plants his feet wide apart and straightens his shoulders. His audience murmurs approval.

“Good. Show me how to hold the bow.”

Caleb grips the bow correctly, tongue poking out slightly as he concentrates. For all his reckless tendencies, he’s actually quite coordinated when he puts his mind to focusing.

“Now the arrow.”

This takes several attempts and considerable patience, but eventually he manages to nock the arrow properly.

“Remember, we never point arrows at people,” I remind him.

“Even bad people?”

“Even bad people. Mama’s the only one who shoots at bad people, and only when they’re trying to hurt our family.”

“What about Daddy Atlas? And Daddy Garrett? And Daddy Silas?”

“They protect our family in their own ways. You protect our family by being safe and smart and listening to instructions.”

“Okay.” He draws the bow back about six inches—all his little arms can manage—and releases. The arrow travels roughly ten feet and lands in the grass well short of any target.

“Good shot!” I tell him, and mean it. For a first attempt by a two-year-old, managing to release the arrow at all is an accomplishment.

“Again!”

“One more, then we need to help clean up for dinner.”

Caleb’s second shot goes even shorter, but his grin suggests he considers this a rousing success.

“Now help Connor collect arrows,” I instruct.

They race off together, Connor explaining proper arrow retrieval technique while Caleb tries to turn it into a competitive game. Watching them, I’m struck by how perfectly they complement each other—Connor’s caution balancing Caleb’s boldness, Caleb’s enthusiasm encouraging Connor’s confidence.

“They’re good boys,” Evie observes, climbing down from the fence.

“They’re exhausting boys.”

“Same thing, really. Good boys keep you on your toes.”

Silas approaches with his apprentices trailing behind, all of them covered in metal dust and grinning with satisfaction. “Class dismissed for today. Remember, practice makes perfect, but safety makes it possible to practice tomorrow.”

The teenagers nod respectfully before heading toward town, probably to show off their new metalworking skills to friends and family.

“How did they do?” I ask.

“Excellent. Two of them have real talent. The others have enthusiasm, which is almost as valuable.”

“Speaking of enthusiasm,” Atlas says, nodding toward our sons, who are now attempting to use arrows as swords in an elaborate battle against imaginary dragons.

“Boys!” I call out. “Arrows are not swords!”

“But dragons!” Caleb protests.

“Dragons are defeated by smart planning and teamwork, not by sword fighting.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Mama used to fight dragons for a living,” Garrett says with a perfectly straight face.

Both boys turn to stare at me with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Really. And the secret to defeating dragons is never giving them a fair fight.”

“What’s a fair fight?” Connor asks.

“One where both sides have equal chances of winning.”

“That’s not fun,” Caleb declares.

“Winning is fun. Fair fights are for people who don’t have families to protect.”

Atlas moves to stand behind me, hands settling on my shoulders with familiar warmth. “Your mama is very good at protecting our family.”

“Are there still dragons?” Connor asks, because of course he wants comprehensive intelligence on potential threats.

“Not the fire-breathing kind,” I assure him. “But there are still people who want to hurt good families, so Mama and your daddies stay ready to protect you.”

“Will you teach us to fight dragons?” Caleb asks with the kind of enthusiasm that suggests he’s already planning his first dragon-hunting expedition.

“When you’re older. For now, you protect our family by being safe and listening to instructions.”

“And by giving the best hugs in Wolf Pike,” Silas adds, scooping both boys into his arms simultaneously.

Their delighted laughter fills the evening air as he spins them around the archery range. Connor shrieks with joy while Caleb demands to be spun faster, higher, more dangerously.

“Dinner!” Garrett calls from the restaurant’s back door. “And it’s getting cold!”

We gather our equipment and head inside, boys racing ahead while their three fathers follow at a more reasonable pace. The restaurant buzzes with evening energy—locals finishing work, travelers stopping for food, Black Wolves members conducting quiet business at corner tables.

Our booth in the back has been modified to accommodate two high chairs and the controlled chaos that comes with toddler dining. Connor eats methodically while Caleb treats every meal as an opportunity to discover new uses for food beyond nutrition.

“Tomorrow we start work on the new playground equipment,” Garrett announces, cutting Connor’s chicken into appropriately sized pieces.

“Swings?” Caleb asks hopefully.

“Swings, slides, climbing structures, and a sandbox.”

“Can we help?”

“You can help by staying out of the way while Daddy Garrett uses dangerous tools,” Atlas says diplomatically.

“Then can we play on it?”

“Then you can terrorize it to your heart’s content.”

“What’s terrorize?” Connor asks.

“Playing so enthusiastically that you worry all the adults watching you,” I explain.

“Like when Caleb rides his bike up trees?”

“Exactly like when Caleb rides his bike up trees.”

Caleb grins proudly, apparently considering “terrorizing adults” a worthy accomplishment.

After dinner, we migrate to the house for bath time and bedtime stories. Two years of practice have turned us into an efficient team—one father handling baths while another prepares pajamas and the third selects age-appropriate books that won’t cause nightmares.

Tonight, Connor chooses a story about brave knights while Caleb insists on dragons. We compromise with a book about knights who become friends with dragons through diplomacy rather than violence.

“Like Mama and the bad people?” Connor asks as I read about negotiated peace treaties.

“Exactly like Mama and the bad people. Sometimes talking works better than fighting.”

“But sometimes you have to fight?”

“Sometimes. When people won’t listen to words and keep trying to hurt innocent families.”

“Will you always protect us?” Caleb asks, suddenly serious.

“Always,” Atlas promises from the doorway.

“All of us will always protect you,” Garrett adds.

“Toujours,” Silas agrees. “Forever and always.”

Both boys nod solemnly, satisfied with these assurances. Within minutes, they’re asleep in their toddler beds, Connor clutching his stuffed wolf while Caleb sprawls across his mattress like he’s planning to conquer it.

Baby monitor in hand, we cross the yard to Wolf’s Den, where the restaurant has settled into its evening rhythm.

A few regulars nurse beers at the bar while soft music plays from speakers that Atlas installed last year.

The kind of peaceful domestic scene I never imagined wanting when I first arrived in Wolf Pike as a federal agent with a mission.

“Good day?” Silas asks, settling beside me at our usual booth.

“Perfect day. Archery lessons, playground planning, dragon negotiations, and bedtime stories. Everything a girl could want.”

“Everything?” Atlas raises an eyebrow with the kind of expression that suggests he has additional activities in mind.

“Well, almost everything.”

“What’s missing?” Garrett asks, sliding into the booth across from us.

I look around our restaurant, at the community we’ve built, at the men who’ve become my whole world. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing is missing.”

And for the first time in my life, that’s completely true.

The End

Dear precious reader, thank you for reading Claimed by the Bikers!

P.S. If you enjoyed Claimed by the Bikers, then I think you’ll enjoy Baby for the Bikers too! Swipe to the next page for a sneak peek…