Page 3 of The Biker’s Single Mom (Fox Ridge MC #5)

I wake to the sound of laughter. Violet's high, sweet giggle followed by a low rumble that takes me a moment to place.

For a few seconds, I lie perfectly still, caught in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. The unfamiliar bed beneath me, the sheets carrying a faint scent of laundry detergent.

I slip from the bed, smoothing down my borrowed t-shirt. One of the women, Florence I think, brought clothes last night after I'd put Violet to bed.

I follow the sounds to the kitchen, but pause in the doorway, arrested by the scene before me.

Daniel stands at the stove, his broad back to me, spatula in hand. Violet sits on a stool at the counter, legs swinging, watching him with complete fascination as she clutches Mr. Wheels in one hand.

"But why do they call you Steel?" she asks. "Is it because you're strong?"

Daniel flips what looks like a pancake before answering. "It's because I don't bend easy."

"Oh." Violet considers this with five-year-old seriousness. "I think it's a good name. Better than Daniel. Daniel is the boy in my class who eats glue."

That rumbling laugh again, rusty like it doesn't get much use. "Thanks. Good to know I rank above glue-eaters."

Something twists in my chest watching them. It's a snapshot of normalcy we've never had, a glimpse of what it might be like to have a man in our lives who isn't a threat.

I must make some sound, because Daniel turns, catching me in the doorway. His eyes move over my body before snapping back to my face.

"Mommy!" Violet waves enthusiastically. "Mr. Fix-It made pancakes shaped like motorcycles!"

I step into the kitchen, tugging self-consciously at the hem of the shirt. "Did he? That's pretty impressive."

"Coffee's fresh," Daniel says, turning back to the stove. His voice is gruffer than it was with Violet. "Mugs in the cabinet to your left."

I pour myself a cup, hyperaware of his presence just a few feet away.

"These are amazing," I say after examining the motorcycle-shaped pancake he slides onto a plate for me. "Hidden talents, Mr. Fix-It?"

The nickname earns me a scowl, but there's no real heat behind it. "Club tradition. Sunday mornings, specialty pancakes."

"It's Thursday," I point out.

He shrugs one massive shoulder. "Kid wanted pancakes."

And just like that, he's dismantled me again. This man who looks like he could tear apart a car with his bare hands, making special breakfast food because my daughter asked.

Violet chatters enough for all of us as we eat, telling Daniel about her favorite foods and her stuffed animals left behind in our apartment.

After breakfast, Daniel's demeanor changes. The almost-softness from earlier disappears, replaced by grim efficiency as he checks his phone and has a brief, terse conversation with someone named Hawk.

"You need to stay inside today," he tells me, pocketing his phone. "Both of you. No going out, not even to the yard."

I bristle immediately. "Excuse me?"

"Hawk spotted an unfamiliar car doing a slow drive-by this morning. Could be nothing, could be Ricci's men."

Fear spikes through me, but it's quickly overshadowed by frustration. "So we're prisoners now?"

"You're protected," he corrects, his jaw tightening.

"Violet needs fresh air, sunshine. She can't just be cooped up indefinitely."

"She needs to be alive," Daniel counters, his voice dropping so Violet, who's moved to the living room with her toy, can't hear. "If that means a few days inside, that's what it means."

"A few days?" I step closer, keeping my own voice low. "And then what? We hide somewhere else for another few days? And then another? That's not a life, Daniel. That's exactly what I've been running from for two years."

"It's better than the alternative."

"Is it? Living in constant fear, looking over my shoulder, teaching my daughter that the world is nothing but threat and shadow?" My hands ball into fists at my sides. "I won't do it anymore. I won't raise her like that."

Daniel moves closer, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Then what's your plan, sunshine? March up to Carlo Ricci and ask him nicely to leave you alone?"

"Don't call me that," I snap. "And no, that's not my plan. But neither is cowering in corners for the rest of our lives."

"It's not cowering, it's strategy," he growls. "Keeping you safe until we can neutralize the threat."

"Neutralize?" I laugh, the sound sharp even to my own ears. "This isn't some action movie. This is my life. My daughter's life."

"You think I don't know that?" He's close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You think I don't understand exactly what's at stake here?"

"I think you're used to giving orders and having them followed. I think you see us as a problem to solve, not people with agency and choices."

His eyes darken. "You want agency? Choose to keep your daughter safe. Stay inside."

Something in me snaps. Maybe it's the fear that's been my constant companion for years. Maybe it's the way he towers over me, so like Carlo in size but so different in every way that matters.

"You don't get to tell me how to protect my child," I hiss, jabbing a finger against his chest. It's like poking concrete. "I have kept her safe for two years without your help. I have sacrificed everything to keep her away from Carlo. Don't you dare imply I would ever put her at risk."

I expect anger in return. Instead, something like respect flashes in his eyes.

"I know you wouldn't," he says, his voice softer but no less intense. "But you're not alone in this fight anymore, Daisy. Let us help you. Let me help you."

The gentleness undoes me more effectively than his anger. I step back, needing distance from his heat, his scent, the magnetic pull of him.

"I can't just hide," I say, hating the tremor in my voice. "I need to find a way to end this for good."

"We will," he promises. "But first, we need information. Blade and Devil are working on it. Just... give us today. Stay put."

I want to argue more, to rail against the constraints, but the memory of Tony and Vincent at the garage yesterday stops me. The fear in Violet's small body as she pressed against me.

"Fine," I concede. "Today. But tomorrow we figure out a real plan."

Daniel nods, relief briefly softening his features before the mask of control slips back into place. "I need to go check in with Blade. Will you be okay here for a few hours?"

"We'll be fine," I say, forcing confidence into my voice. "Violet and I are used to entertaining ourselves."

He hesitates, eyes searching my face like he can see through my bravado. "Lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone but me or Hawk."

"Yes, sir," I mutter, rolling my eyes.

That gets me the ghost of a smile, there and gone in an instant. "Smartass."

After he leaves, the clubhouse feels emptier. I busy myself helping Violet build a fort out of couch cushions, then reading her stories until she grows restless.

We discover a shelf of board games in a closet, and I'm setting up Candy Land when I hear the back door open. My heart leaps to my throat until Daniel's deep voice calls out, "It's just me."

Relief floods me, followed immediately by irritation at how glad I am to hear his voice.

Violet abandons the game to race toward the sound. "Mr. Fix-It! We found games!"

I follow more slowly, rounding the corner to find Daniel crouched down, examining Mr. Wheels, which Violet has thrust into his hands.

"His wheel is wobbly again," she explains seriously.

"I see that," Daniel says, turning the toy over in his large hands. "Got some tools in my room. Want to help me fix him properly this time?"

Violet nods eagerly, and I watch as Daniel leads her down the hallway, shortening his stride to match her skipping steps.

They disappear into what must be his room, the door left partially open.

From where I stand, I can see them sitting on the edge of a neatly made bed, heads bent together over a small toolkit.

I should join them, should maintain the boundary between this dangerous man and my impressionable daughter. Instead, I find myself frozen, watching through the crack in the door.

Daniel's hands, so large they make the screwdriver look like a toothpick, move with surprising delicacy as he shows Violet how to tighten the tiny screw that holds the wheel in place. His voice, pitched low and patient, explains each step.

"Gotta be gentle," he tells her. "Too tight and it won't spin free. Too loose and it falls off."

"Like Goldilocks," Violet says. "Just right."

That rusty laugh again. "Yeah, exactly like that."

The realization hits me with unexpected force: I want Daniel. Not just his protection, not just his strength, but him—his gentleness beneath the gruffness, his patience, his solid presence that makes me feel safe for the first time in years.

The intensity of the wanting terrifies me.

Later, after Violet has fallen asleep on the couch watching a movie, I find Daniel on the back deck again. Night has fallen, wrapping the yard in velvet darkness broken only by the glow of security lights at the perimeter.

He turns when the door opens, his profile sharp against the night sky. "She asleep?"

I nod, stepping out to join him at the railing. "Out cold. All that board game excitement wore her out."

He makes a sound that might be amusement, taking a pull from the beer in his hand.

"Thank you," I say into the quiet between us. "For yesterday. For standing up to Carlo's men."

Daniel shrugs, the movement rippling through his broad shoulders. "Wasn't just me. Any of the Riders would have done the same."

"Maybe. But you were the one who did it." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm night. "I haven't... trusted a man since Carlo. Not with myself, and certainly not with Violet."

He's silent for a long moment, and when I glance up, he's watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"I'm not a good man, Daisy," he says finally, his voice rough. "I've done things—"

"Maybe not," I interrupt softly. "But you're a safe one."

Something shifts in his expression, a crack in the armor he wears so completely. He sets his beer down with deliberate care, then turns to face me fully.

"You shouldn't trust me," he says, but he's moving closer, crowding me against the railing. "You shouldn't..."

But I'm already lifting my face to his, drawn by a gravity I can't fight anymore. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, calloused palm rough against my skin. For a heartbeat, he hesitates, searching my eyes for permission or refusal.

I give him neither, simply rising on my tiptoes to press my mouth to his.

The kiss ignites like gasoline hitting flame. His arms wrap around me, lifting me effortlessly until we're pressed together from chest to thigh. My hands find his hair, tangling in the dark waves, holding him to me as his tongue sweeps into my mouth with hungry possession.

He tastes like beer and desire and danger, all the things I've denied myself for so long. His beard scrapes deliciously against my skin as he angles his head, deepening the kiss until I'm dizzy with it.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it's over. Daniel tears his mouth from mine with a curse, setting me back on my feet and stepping away. His chest heaves with ragged breaths that match my own.

"We can't," he growls, running a hand through his hair. "This isn't—you're not thinking clearly. You're scared, grateful. I won't take advantage of that."

I should be offended by his assumptions about my state of mind, but all I can focus on is the heat still pulsing between us, the lingering taste of him on my lips.

"I know exactly what I'm doing," I tell him, my voice steadier than I feel. "And what I want."

His eyes darken, desire warring with restraint. "It's not that simple."

"It never is," I agree. "But sometimes, Daniel, the complicated thing and the right thing are the same."

I leave him there on the deck, my body humming with unfulfilled need and the certainty that something irreversible has shifted between us. For better or worse, there's no going back to whatever safe distance we might have maintained.

For the first time in years, I feel something dangerously close to hope.