Page 76 of Claimed By the Bikers

“Mmm.Stress will do that.”

“Exactly. It’s just stress.”

But there’s something in the way she says it, too quick and defensive, that makes me think stress isn’t the only thing affecting her appetite. She’s been like this for days—distracted, tired, picking at her food like the sight of it makes her queasy.

“You know what you need?” I ask, settling into the chair beside her.

“What?”

“Fresh air. Open road. Something to remind you that we’re still alive and free to do whatever we want.”

“Silas, there’s too much work?—”

“There’s always work. But right now, you look like you’re about to crawl out of your own skin.” I gesture around the restaurant, where Atlas is coordinating window installation and Garrett’s arguing with a contractor. “And honestly, between the power tools and my brothers micromanaging every detail, this place is loud enough to wake the dead.”

She manages a small smile at that. “They are being a little intense.”

“A little? They’re driving everyone crazy with their perfectionism.”

“They want to make sure we’re protected.”

“Oui, but protection doesn’t require measuring the same thing repeatedly. What it requires is clear heads and steady nerves, neither of which we’re going to have if we keep grinding ourselves into dust over details.”

She looks around the restaurant. “What did you have in mind?”

“A ride. Just you and me, somewhere quiet where we can actually hear ourselves think.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. What if something happens?—”

“What if nothing happens? What if we spend a few hours enjoying the fact that we faced down federal agents and lived to tell about it?”

“This isn’t over, Silas. You know that. They’re planning their next move?—”

“And they’ll still be regrouping whether we spend the evening here listening to power tools or somewhere peaceful where we can relax.” I reach over to take her hand, noting how cold her fingers are despite the warm afternoon. “When’s the last time you did something just because you wanted to, not because it was part of some larger plan?”

She considers this, staring at our joined hands. “I can’t remember.”

“Exactly my point.Ma belle, you’ve been living in crisis mode for months. Your body needs to remember what normal feels like.”

“Normal? I’m not sure I know what that means anymore.”

“Then let me show you.”

An hour later, she’s sitting behind me on my Harley, arms wrapped around my waist as we cruise through the winding mountain roads outside Wolf Pike. The sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that no camera could capture.

This is exactly what she needed. I’m taking her to a spot about ten miles outside town where the desert opens up into a natural amphitheater ringed by red rock formations.

The bike handles the dirt road easily, tires finding purchase on packed earth and scattered stone. Behind me, Ember’s grip tightens slightly as we navigate the rough terrain, but she doesn’t ask me to slow down or turn back.

When we finally reach my destination, I kill the engine and help her off the bike. The sudden silence is profound after nearly an hour of mechanical noise, broken only by wind moving through the rocks and the distant cry of a hawk above us.

“My goodness,” she breathes, staring at the landscape spread out before us. “It’s beautiful.”

“Wait until you see it with stars.”

The spot I’ve chosen sits on a natural ledge overlooking miles of desert, with Wolf Pike’s lights visible as tiny pinpricks in thedistance. Behind us, the red rock formations provide windbreak and privacy, creating a natural room open to the sky.

I unpack the supplies I brought—a thick blanket, insulated bottles of water, and a simple meal of bread, cheese, and fruit that won’t spoil in the desert heat. Not fancy, but enough to keep us comfortable while we watch the sun finish setting.