Page 61 of Claimed By the Bikers

“You okay?” Garrett asks as I’m tying my apron.

“Just tired.”

“You sure? You’ve seemed off the last couple of days.”

“I’m fine. Really.” I stretch up to kiss him. “See you tonight.”

Wolf’s Den is already bustling when I arrive for my shift. Tuesday nights draw a good crowd—locals who don’t want to cook, travelers passing through, and the usual collection of bikers and truckers who treat the place like a second home.

“Thank God you’re here,” Lizzy greets me, looking frazzled. “We’re already running behind, and the McCready family just called in a reservation for eight people.”

“The ones with all the kids?”

“That’s them. Plus, Mrs. Hernandez is celebrating her birthday with her entire extended family, so we’re looking at a full house tonight.”

I grab my order pad and dive into the controlled chaos. Take drink orders for a table of truckers, deliver appetizers to thecorner booth, refill coffee for Mr. Patterson, who’s reading his newspaper and pretending he’s not eavesdropping on everyone else’s conversations.

It’s good, honest work. The kind that keeps your hands busy and your mind focused on simple, immediate problems. Much better than worrying about cartels or mysterious SUVs or the possibility that I might be carrying one of my captors’ babies.

Not thinking about that.

“Ember!” Atlas calls from the kitchen pass. “Table twelve needs their order taken.”

Table twelve is a family I haven’t seen before—a couple about my age, the woman heavily pregnant like she’s ready to pop any second. The woman’s husband keeps fussing over her, adjusting her chair and asking if she needs more water.

“First baby?” I ask as I approach their table.

“Second,” the woman says with a tired smile. “But this one’s being more difficult than the first. I swear, if he doesn’t come soon, I’m going to evict him myself.”

“When are you due?”

“Three days ago. Doctor says he’ll come when he’s ready, but I’m ready now.”

I laugh, taking their drink orders and trying not to think about due dates and doctor visits and all the things that come with pregnancy. “I’ll get these right out for you.”

The evening passes in the usual rush of orders and refills and small talk with regulars. Around eight thirty, a commotion near the front door catches my attention. Two men I don’t recognize,obviously drunk, are arguing loudly about something involving the Denver Broncos and someone named Ashley.

“Fucking told you she was cheating,” the taller one slurs, swaying slightly as he gestures wildly. “Saw her with that asshole from the garage.”

“You don’t know what you saw,” his friend replies, but he’s just as drunk and twice as angry. “Ashley wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t she? Then explain why she was sucking face with him behind Murphy’s bar.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I? Ask anyone who was there Saturday night.”

The argument escalates, voices getting louder, other customers starting to stare. I catch Atlas’s eye across the room and nod toward the men. Time for management to intervene.

“Gentlemen,” Atlas says, appearing calmly beside their table, “let’s keep it down a little. We’ve got families eating.”

“Mind your own business,” the tall one snaps. “This is between me and him.”

“It becomes my business when it’s happening in my restaurant.”

“Your restaurant? Who the fuck are you?”

“The owner. And I’m asking you politely to either keep it civil or take it outside.”