Page 111 of Claimed By the Bikers

I look at my brothers, seeing my own curiosity reflected in their faces. Planning is easier with specific information, but surprises have their own appeal.

“Your choice,” Garrett says diplomatically.

“Our choice,” she corrects. “This baby belongs to all of us equally.”

“Then I vote we find out,” I decide. “I want to know if we’re having a son or daughter so we can start planning appropriately.”

“Seconded,” Atlas agrees. “Practical preparation requires specific information.”

“Motion carries,” Garrett concludes with a grin. “We’ll find out the baby’s gender next week.”

The phone rings before anyone can respond, interrupting our domestic planning session. Atlas answers with his usual business tone, but his expression quickly shifts to alert attention.

“Understood. We’ll be ready.” He hangs up, turning to face us with grim satisfaction. “That was Diego Morales. Los Serpientes accepts our terms. Complete withdrawal from Wolf Pike territory, effective immediately.”

“Just like that?” Ember asks.

“Just like that. Sometimes negotiation works better than violence.”

“Disappointing,” Rick says from the doorway where he’s been listening. “We were hoping for a proper war.”

“Next time,” I promise. “There’s always another enemy looking to test our resolve.”

But for now, peace. For now, safety for the woman carrying our child and the community that’s accepted us as family. For now, the chance to build something beautiful instead of just defending what we’ve already claimed.

“So what happens now?” Ember asks, settling more comfortably in my lap.

“Now we plan a nursery,” Atlas says. “Now we prepare for parenthood. Now we figure out how to raise a child in a family that defies every conventional definition.”

“Now we celebrate,” Garrett adds. “Victory over cartels, federal agents, and anyone else who thought they could take what belongs to us.”

“Now we love each other,” I conclude, wrapping my arms around the woman who chose us over everything safe and predictable in her former life. “For as long as we’re all breathing.”

Ember tilts her head back to look at me. “That sounds like a perfect plan,” she says softly.

Outside, motorcycles roar to life as our Black Wolves brothers begin departing now that the crisis has passed. But inside our kitchen, surrounded by the men who’ve become my family and holding the woman who’s become our future, I feel something I haven’t experienced since I was a child in New Orleans.

Complete peace. The kind that comes from knowing you’re exactly where you belong, with exactly the people who matter, building exactly the life you never dared hope you deserved.

C’est parfait, I think, pressing another kiss to Ember’s temple.

This is absolutely, utterly perfect.

33

EMBER

My shoelaces might as well beon the moon.

I stare down at my feet, belly blocking any view of the black boots that need tying, and consider the mathematical impossibility of bending far enough to reach them. Eight months and two weeks of carrying these babies, and every simple task has become a strategic operation.

“Here.” Garrett appears with coffee and drops to one knee beside the kitchen chair, fingers working the laces with gentle care. “Left one’s been coming undone all week. I’ll double-knot it.”

“I used to be able to dress myself.”

“You still can. You just have a team now.” He ties the right boot, then sits back on his heels to examine his work. “There. Ready for another day of terrorizing Wolf Pike.”

Through the kitchen window, I watch Atlas loading medical supplies into the truck for the monthly distribution run to families who depend on our network. These days he insists on handling most of the physical work himself.