Page 54 of Claimed By the Bikers

“Deal.”

But as I head out to meet with Rico and coordinate our response, I can’t shake the feeling that protecting Ember might require more than just extra security. It might require choices I’m not ready to make.

By evening, the intelligence picture has gotten worse. Los Serpientes have established observation posts on three major routes leading into Wolf Pike, suggesting they’re planning something more than casual territory expansion. Rico’s contacts report increased chatter about “northern opportunities” and “mountain partnerships,” the kind of language that usually precedes violent takeovers.

I return to the house after dark, physically and mentally exhausted from coordinating defensive positions and contingency plans. The living room is quiet, just Ember curled up on the couch with a book, but I can see tension in the line of her shoulders.

“Silas and Garrett?” I ask.

“Silas is in his forge, working late. Garrett’s at the storage facility, checking inventory.” She closes the book and looks up at me. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough. They’re definitely planning something, we just don’t know what or when.”

“And you’ve assigned me a babysitter.”

“I’ve assigned you protection. Marco has orders to keep an eye on you whenever you leave the house.”

“I noticed. Hard to miss a two-hundred-pound biker following me to the grocery store.”

“He’s good at his job.”

“I’m sure he is. But Atlas, I’m not some helpless civilian who needs constant supervision. I’m a federal agent with tactical training and combat experience.”

“You’re an important person in my world, which makes you a target if anyone figures out how much you mean to us.”

“Talk to me,” she says softly. “Not as the guy coordinating security, but as the man who’s clearly terrified of losing something precious.”

“I’m not terrified.”

“Liar.” She reaches up to touch my face, thumb stroking across my cheekbone. “I can see it in your eyes. The same look you had when you caught me with that phone. Fear disguised as control.”

“Maybe I am scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of failing to protect you the way I failed to protect my men in Afghanistan.”

“Tell me about Afghanistan. Not the mission or the politics, but what it did to you. What it taught you about loss.”

I want to deflect, to give her the sanitized version I’ve shared with therapists and investigators. But something in her expression—understanding mixed with fierce compassion—makes me want to tell the truth.

“Come upstairs with me.”

In my bedroom, with the door closed and the house quiet around us, I pull off my shirt and turn so she can see my back. The scars are faded now, white lines against tanned skin, but they still map the story of the worst night of my life.

“Shrapnel,” I explain as her fingers trace the largest scar. “IED that took out our transport vehicle outside Kabul.”

“How many were hurt?”

“Four injured, two dead. Martinez and Johnson, both kids barely out of basic training. Johnson was supposed to rotate home the following month. Had a girlfriend waiting for him, planned to propose when he got back.”

Her touch is gentle, reverent almost, as she follows each scar’s path. “You blame yourself.”

“I was the commanding officer. Their safety was my responsibility.”

“And you couldn’t have known about the IED.”

“No. But I could have chosen a different route, varied our patrol schedule, and been more careful about local intelligence. Any number of decisions that might have saved their lives.”