Page 103 of Claimed By the Bikers

“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.