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Please enjoy the following exert from the first book in the Hounds of the Reaper Series: Chains

F ive weeks have passed since I became a single mom—of sorts—and things are finally getting into a routine. I didn’t know how the kids would react to me. And let’s be honest here, I was clueless about what I was doing. I still don’t know.

Grace has been easy. The girl stole my heart immediately and had no problem letting me in.

From her blue eyes looking into my soul with so much hope for a better life to the way her cornfield-blonde hair curled into ringlets that bounced with each step she took.

She’s a genuine princess to the core, despite that she refuses to be called one, preferring to be known as Supergirl Grace, or Gigi for short.

It doesn’t make a lick of sense, but when I first called her that, she couldn’t stop giggling.

Even Teddy showed one of his rare smiles.

She’s still so young, which helps me on so many levels.

I try not to think about how she has no mama anymore, but I don’t think she remembers her much.

From the way Teddy speaks occasionally, even though Jennie died less than a year ago, I get the feeling she wasn’t around a ton.

It makes my heart ache to know they were alone so much.

They had their grandma, at least. She might have forgotten things, but at least she was around. That had to count for something.

For today, Grace is all about superheroes. But with the way I keep showing them new things every day, I’m sure my little superhero will change into something else by the end of the month. Heck, she was all about solving mysteries the first two weeks, and we watched nothing but Scooby-Doo.

It took some time, but she soon moved from clinging to her brother to me.

Not sure what I did to deserve the love of the sweetest superhero ever, but I cherish each hug, each cuddle with my entire heart.

It’s made for some difficult times when she refuses to be out of my arms, proving more than once she has abandonment issues.

On nights that the cling monster comes out, we usually order in, as there’s no way I can cook with one hand.

I’m not that talented yet. But I’m working on it.

I have no illusion that I can keep Teddy and Grace, but I willingly live in denial that the day won’t come soon.

Teddy has been harder to get to warm up to me.

He’s a tough nut to crack, and I’m in no rush.

He’s been through hell. Might weigh the size of a peanut, but he seems to carry everything on his shoulders.

Or at least he tries to. He watches over his sister more times than not, and he’s started even watching over me.

I can’t tell if it’s his concern for me or being wary of me.

Even without getting the dossier on him that Izzy sent over after the third day, there was sadness in his hazel eyes that no little boy should ever have. His hair matches his sister’s in color, but he likes to keep it short. In his words, he wants to see what’s coming at all times.

I will admit that I don’t have a ton of experience on how to handle trauma kids.

Google searches have helped a bit, but mostly they’ve made me think I’ve been screwing it all up with what I’ve been doing.

Apparently buying everything the little boy wants, or what I think he wants, is a bad thing.

Well, too damn bad. The boy needs happiness, and I’m trying to give it to him, even if that means I have to buy a new Lego set every day.

The kid is wicked smart and able to build anything I put in front of him.

The routine is simple for us. Kids wake up at the ass crack of dawn, pulling me out of bed to turn on cartoons.

They enjoy a few snacks while watching silliness while I try to wake up after drinking a few cups of coffee.

Then breakfast, followed by another cartoon or two, depending on the time.

By ten, I usually have them outside. I have nothing really awesome in the backyard.

The house is a fixer-upper, in and out. Most of the areas inside are decent enough, which is why we focus on the outside for an hour or two.

I try to get them into planting flowers and mowing, which usually works for ten minutes, and then they’re off exploring the area, which isn’t that large but big enough for them based on the smiles they have. It’s great watching them play together.

By half past eleven, we head inside to wash up and eat lunch.

Gigi goes down for a nap, and Teddy, who constantly says he’s too big for one, will look at one of his books before crashing out for at least an hour.

I crash then, too, as the kids wear me out all the time.

We typically fill the afternoons with Teddy building something.

Gigi was off being a superhero that gave tea parties to all her stuffed animals.

And yes, if I get Teddy a new Lego, Gigi gets a new stuffy.

What can I say? I’ve already admitted I’m clueless.

Who cares if the girl has about forty different stuffies already?

If she spots another one, I know I’m going to buy it for her.

Dinner is early—well, for me anyhow. Before the kids showed, I usually worked on the house till well past eight before calling it quits, but I soon realized that one great asset the kids have is they love to sleep.

Bedtime is at 7:30 p.m. for both, which is awesome, but makes dinner at six fun, especially since I have to wrap up my stuff at five.

Who knew cooking for three took so much time?

I’d like to believe that once the kids go down, I live it up.

That I’d focus on the house, get back on schedule to get things done in the timeframe I planned to sell the place in the next few months.

But honestly? I usually spend way too much time googling how to cook something, or buying something new I think they would like.

Even looking up ways to coax Teddy out of his shell a bit more.

He’s said little unless he’s trying to protect his sister.

That first day was interesting. After our little coffee talk—always making sure I have one in hand to keep the smile on my face—we did breakfast, then went shopping.

I asked them a million questions about what they liked, and they didn’t answer, so I just chose what I thought looked good.

When I piled up the baskets full of clothes at the first store and bought everything without blinking, they soon realized that if they wanted something, it was theirs.

I’m not loaded, but a few delayed installments in my renovation were worth the smiles from Gigi.

I even got one out of Teddy when I found his love for Legos while we took a turn around the toy aisle.

Books were in the basket already, but kids have to have toys. It’s a must.

I’m just cleaning up the cereal bowls as the kids finish the latest Scooby-Doo when I hear the grumble of bikes.

Both kids notice as well and look at me in alarm.

This isn’t the first time we’ve heard the noise of a motorcycle going by.

A few times we went into town, one would pass.

Both kids freaked at the sound. Gigi usually gets over it quickly with a distraction, but Teddy remembers enough to have nightmares about them.

That’s another routine we’ve gotten into.

His nightmares are getting less frequent.

Not nightly, like when he first showed up, but a few times a week.

He wakes up screaming, and I run to his room asking what’s wrong.

He never tells me, so I just hold him and tell him it’ll be okay.

That’s the only time he lets me hold him.

The boy might pretend he’s a man, but those nights, he needs a mama, and I’m always happy to oblige, for a little while at least. The only way for him to drift back to sleep is reading him The Cat in the Hat .

I don’t argue if he wants it nightly, or repeated three times before he sleeps.

It’s what he needs, and with all my Google searching, that’s one thing I learned: do what they need to feel safe .

A quick glance out the front window shows five motorcycles pulling in. My heart’s in my throat as I hear the pounding their engines made.

I smile at the kids, faking it so much my jaw aches. “Do me a favor and let me know who the shark ghost is. I’ll be back soon.”

Teddy does the cutest chin lift ever, saying he has my back without words.

Buddy boy, I got yours. Don’t you worry about it.

Opening the hall closet, I angle my back to the TV so the kids don’t see what I’m doing. I reach for the top shelf and pull down my Remington. Loading it quickly, I walk out the front door, pushing the screen door open with the barrel as I smile down at my guests, who parked in front of the porch.

“Good morning. Can I help you with anything?”

Not going to lie, I totally think I’m smug as shit when they all hesitate to get off their bikes.

Yeah, dumbasses, I ain’t letting you take my kids.

Wait, “my kids”?

Shit, I’m already claiming them. That’s one rule for being a foster parent: don’t get too attached.

Too late, looks like I already am.

My smugness dies as the biggest of the bunch—and probably the sexiest man I have ever seen in my life—slides off his seat, as graceful as water rolling off rocks, and stalks toward me.