Page 45 of Claimed By the Bikers

“I know.”

“Do you? Have you ever lost someone who mattered?”

“My mother.” She leans against my workbench, studying my face. “Cancer. I watched her waste away for six months, fighting treatments that made her sicker than the disease. At the end, she weighed ninety pounds and couldn’t remember my name half the time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The worst part wasn’t watching her die. It was the relief I felt when it was finally over. When I didn’t have to pretend to be strong anymore, didn’t have to smile and tell her everything would be fine when we both knew it wouldn’t.”

I understand that feeling. The guilt that comes with surviving, with being grateful that the suffering has ended even when it means saying goodbye forever.

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-one. Fresh out of college, just starting at Quantico. Ben fast-tracked my application because he said grief would make me more dedicated to the job.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Turns out he was right. Easier to disappear into work than deal with being alone.”

“You’re not alone anymore.”

“No.” She reaches out to touch my hand where it rests on the workbench. “Neither are you.”

The simple contact sends warmth up my arm, and I have to resist the urge to pull her closer. Work time isn’t the right time for touching, for getting lost in the way she makes me feel. But her fingers are soft against my calloused skin, and she doesn’t pull away when I turn my palm up to hold her hand properly.

“Lunch is ready,” she says softly. “Atlas sent me to collect you.”

“Give me five minutes to clean up.”

“Of course.”

She starts to leave, then pauses in the doorway. “Garrett?”

“Aye?”

“Sarah would be proud of the man you’ve become. Of the family you’ve built with Atlas and Silas. Of the way you’ve learned to love again.”

The words hit hard, and I have to swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat. “Thank you.”

She smiles and disappears back toward the house, leaving me alone with wood shavings and the lingering scent of her shampoo. I finish cleaning my tools, but my hands shake slightly as I put them away.

Lunch passes quietly with soup and sandwiches, casual conversation about supply runs and restaurant schedules. But I catch Atlas watching me more carefully than usual, those sharp eyes cataloging details I’d rather keep hidden. Silas makes his usual flirtatious comments to Ember, speaking French in her ear until she laughs, but even he seems to notice something’s off.

“You alright?” Atlas asks when Ember steps out to take a phone call from Lizzy.

“Fine.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been wound tight all day.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Silas leans back in his chair, green eyes studying my face. “When’s the last time you slept properly? Real sleep, not that restless tossing you’ve been doing.”

“I sleep fine.”

“You wake up swinging at shadows,” Atlas says bluntly. “Last week, you nearly put your fist through the wall before you realized where you were.”

“It’s nothing.”

“The dreams getting worse?”

I don’t answer, which is answer enough. Both my brothers exchange one of their wordless looks, the kind that says they’re worried and planning to do something about it, whether I like it or not.