Page 3 of Monstrosity (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #5)

CHAPTER ONE

Dasha

The morning light filters through Rio's kitchen windows like honey, casting everything in that soft golden glow that makes even the most ordinary moments feel sacred.

I've been up for twenty minutes already, moving quietly through his space like I belong here—which, after two years of this routine, I suppose I do.

The coffee maker gurgles to life, filling the silence with its familiar rhythm.

I know exactly how Rio likes his coffee: black, two sugars, in the blue ceramic mug Florencia made him in art class last year.

It's chipped along the rim and slightly lopsided, but he refuses to drink from anything else when he's home.

I'm wearing one of his old Raiders of Valhalla t-shirts—the soft black cotton that smells like his cologne and something uniquely him—over a pair of sleep shorts.

My hair's twisted into a messy bun secured with whatever elastic I could find in his junk drawer, and I haven't bothered with makeup.

This is as real as I get, and somehow, in this kitchen that's become more familiar than my own apartment, that feels okay.

Normal, even.

The eggs sizzle in the pan as I flip them carefully, making sure the yolks stay intact.

Florencia likes hers runny so she can dip her toast, while Cali prefers hers scrambled with cheese.

Five-year-olds have very specific opinions about breakfast, and after two years of being a regular with their morning routines, I know every preference, every quirk, every way to make these little girls smile.

Footsteps on the hardwood signal Rio's approach before I see him.

My body responds before my brain catches up—that familiar flutter in my stomach, the way my pulse quickens just from knowing he's near.

It's pathetic, really, how affected I am by this man who sees me as nothing more than his daughters' babysitter and his friend.

When I turn to grab plates from the cabinet, he's standing in the doorway.

My breath catches.

He's fresh from the shower, dark hair still damp and slightly curled at the ends, wearing well-worn jeans that hang perfectly on his hips and a black t-shirt that stretches across shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the world.

Which, knowing Rio's job with the club, he probably does.

But there's something different about him this morning.

Something tighter around his eyes, a tension in the set of his jaw that wasn't there yesterday.

Dark circles shadow his eyes like he didn't sleep, and when our gazes meet, there's an intensity there that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

"Morning," I say softly, already reaching for his mug. "Coffee's ready."

"Thank you." His voice is rougher than usual, gravelly with sleep and something else I can't identify.

Our fingers brush as I hand him the mug, and that simple contact sends electricity shooting up my arm.

He doesn't pull away immediately—neither do I—and for just a moment, we're connected by nothing more than coffee and the charged air between us.

God, I want him.

The thought hits me with its usual force, leaving me slightly breathless.

Five years of morning routines, of shared dinners and bedtime stories, of being part of his family without actually being part of his family, and I still react to him like a teenager with her first crush.

"You're up early," he observes, taking a sip of his coffee.

His eyes close briefly in appreciation—I've perfected his morning ritual down to the exact temperature.

"Couldn't sleep." Which is true, though not for the reasons he might think.

I was lying in his guest room—the room that's basically become mine—thinking about him down the hall.

Wondering what would happen if I walked those fifteen steps to his bedroom door.

Wondering if he ever thinks about me the way I think about him.

Wondering why, after two years of dancing around each other, we haven't crossed the line we both seem to want to cross.

"Everything okay?" There's genuine concern in his voice, and when I look at him, he's studying my face with those dark eyes that see everything.

"Yeah, just..." I wave a hand vaguely, turning back to the stove to flip the last egg. "You know how it is."

I don't finish the thought because how do you tell a man that you were awake thinking about what his hands would feel like on your skin?

How do you explain that you've memorized the way he looks at your mouth when he thinks you're not paying attention?

How do you admit that you've been in love with him for longer than you care to admit?

Rio moves behind me to reach for napkins from the counter, and suddenly he's there—his chest nearly brushing my back, his arm extending around me, the heat of his body radiating through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

Then his free hand settles on my lower back.

The touch is light, could be completely innocent—just Rio reaching around me for napkins.

But his palm is warm against my spine, his fingers spread wide, and when he leans forward that final inch to grab what he needs, I can feel his breath against my ear.

Chills race down my spine, but not the kind that come from cold.

These are the good kind, the kind that pool low in my belly and make my knees weak.

His hand doesn't move from my back, and I find myself holding my breath, afraid that any movement will break whatever spell has fallen over us.

"Dasha." My name is barely a whisper, but I hear something in it that makes my heart stutter.

I start to turn in the circle of his arm, wanting to see his face, wanting to know if this moment means what I think it means.

But before I can complete the motion, Cali's voice echoes down the stairs.

"Daddy! I can't find my purple socks!"

Rio's hand drops from my back like I've burned him, and he steps away so quickly I actually feel the loss of his warmth.

The moment shatters like glass, leaving me standing at the stove with trembling hands and a racing heart.

"I'll go help her," he says, his voice carefully controlled. But when I risk a glance at him, his jaw is tight and there's something almost painful in his expression.

"Rio—"

"I'll go help her," he repeats, already heading for the stairs. "The purple ones are probably in the laundry room."

And then he's gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the smell of eggs and coffee and the lingering warmth of his touch on my back.

I lean against the counter, pressing my palms to my heated cheeks.

This is insane.

We're adults—I'm thirty-nine, he's thirty-two—and we're acting like teenagers who don't know how to communicate.

But there's something there between us, something real and electric and terrifying in its intensity.

The question is: what are we going to do about it?

Heavy footsteps on the stairs announce the return of the Rojas family chaos.

Florencia appears first, her long dark hair tangled from sleep, wearing the pink nightgown she insists on even though it's too small for her eight-year-old frame.

"Dasha!" She launches herself at my legs, hugging me tight. "Did you make the eggs the way I like?"

"Of course, mija ." I smooth her hair back from her face, my heart clenching with love for this little girl who's become such an important part of my life. "Runny yolks for dipping, just like always."

Cali appears next, wearing the now-located purple socks and a triumphant grin. "Daddy found them! They were hiding under Florencia's bed."

"They were not hiding," Florencia protests with the dignity only an eight-year-old can muster. "They were just... visiting."

Rio follows them into the kitchen, and I pretend not to notice the way he carefully avoids making eye contact with me.

Instead, I focus on getting breakfast on the table, on the familiar chaos of morning routines, on anything except the way my skin still tingles where he touched me.

"Can we have pancakes tomorrow?" Cali asks, climbing into her booster seat. "With the Mickey Mouse shape?"

"We'll see," Rio says, ruffling her hair. "Depends on whether you eat all your eggs today."

"I always eat my eggs," Cali protests. "Florencia's the one who feeds hers to the dog."

"We don't have a dog," Florencia points out logically.

"That's why the eggs disappear," Cali says with five-year-old wisdom. "The invisible dog eats them."

I can't help but laugh at their banter, the way they can turn anything into a grand adventure.

These girls have been through so much—losing their mother when they were so young—but they still find joy in silly conversations about invisible dogs and visiting socks.

Rio catches my eye across the table and smiles, a real smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes my stomach flutter.

This is what I love most about our mornings—the way we fall into this easy family rhythm, the way the girls treat me like I belong here, the way Rio looks at me like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

If only I could figure out how to tell him that I want to belong here. Really belong here. Not just as the babysitter or the friend, but as something more.

"All right, girls," Rio says after they've finished eating. "Go get dressed. Teeth brushed, hair combed, backpacks ready."

"Can Dasha do my hair?" Florencia asks hopefully. "She makes the braids stay in better than you do, Daddy."

"Hey," Rio protests with mock offense. "My braids are perfectly acceptable."

"Your braids are lumpy," Cali informs him seriously.

I bite back another laugh. "I'll do both your hair after you're dressed, okay? But only if you hurry."

They scramble upstairs, leaving Rio and me alone again.

The tension from earlier creeps back in, settling over us like a heavy blanket.

"Thank you," he says quietly, starting to clear the breakfast dishes. "For this. For them. For... everything."

"You don't have to thank me." I take the plates from his hands, our fingers brushing again in the transfer. "They're amazing kids, Rio. Being a part of their lives... it's not a burden."