Page 21 of Dad Bod's Daring December

The walls of my home rattle with the roar of motorcycles. They may call themselves Demons, but they’re just men fueled by the spite of a woman who made her own bed.

Rebecca chose to betray her marriage and Edward. She chose to cause all of this because of her shame. Because she wanted Edward out of her sight so she wouldn’t feel guilty. And now, she’s furious that Edward has moved on. Rebecca’s fury at our happiness has turned lethal, her jealousy manifesting in the form of these leather-clad messengers of havoc. I glimpse their grim faces through the curtains, hardened expressions shadowed by the moonlight.

I never thought I’d be caught in the crossfire of a biker gang war. Las Vegas, with all its sins, was dangerous, but this? This is madness. Edward’s history with Rebecca was supposed to be just that—history. Yet here I am, clutching a shotgun, heart pounding, as the ghosts of his past crash through the walls of my present.

The darkness is filled with the loud crack of gunshots as I frantically scan for my attackers. I pull the trigger of the shotgun again, aiming at where I last saw a flash of fire from their barrels. Each shot is a desperate attempt to end this nightmare, to make these men pay for what they’ve done to us. I am ready to take them down, one by one, if that’s what it takes to survive.

Red and blue lights slice through the darkness, casting an otherworldly glow over our besieged sanctuary.

“Police!” I cry out, unsure if it’s a warning or a prayer. Relief floods my chest, mingling with the lingering fear as the lights approach, closer now, flashing brightly in the night.

“Ember,” Edward grunts, pain lacing his voice.

My heart stops. I swivel toward him, ready to abandon my post. And then I see it—a dark stain spread across his shirt. He’s been shot. Panic claws at my throat, threatening to choke me.

“Where are you hit, Edward?” I demand, racing toward him.

I locate the injury and inspect it, sighing in relief when I see a deep groove on his upper bicep but no entry wound. I press my hands firmly against the gash, the warmth of Edward’s blood seeping between my fingers. He winces at the pressure, but his eyes find mine, filled with an intensity that cuts through the mayhem surrounding us.

“I’m not going down that easy, Firefly,” he mutters, his voice strained but resolute.

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. The thought of losing him…

The relentless barrage of gunfire outside wanes. The Demons are scattering, their resolve crumbling under the threat of law enforcement. It’s ironic, really. I moved here to escape the crime of a big city, only to land slap bang in a storm of violence in this quiet place.

The approaching sirens grow louder, and I pray that help arrives in time. I give him a wobbly smile, but as the adrenaline ebbs, a wave of exhaustion crashes over me. The reality of our situation hits me like a ton of bricks. We’re fighting for our lives in a battle we never asked for. We’re fighting for each other against an enemy driven by nothing more than malice.

The sirens drown out the last echoes of gunfire. Red and blue lights dance across the walls, casting an eerie glow over the scene. Relief washes over me as I think of the life I’ve tried to build, of the love that’s blossomed between us in the mostunexpected soil. And now, as sirens scream their arrival, cutting through the staccato of bullets and engines, I wonder if any of it will remain standing when dawn breaks.

But I don’t have time for doubt, not when Edward needs me. Not when survival is still uncertain. I lean over and kiss him, my resolve hardening. This isn’t about staying alive anymore. It’s about protecting what’s ours.

“Help is here,” I say, more to convince myself than him. “We’re going to make it through this.” And I believe it. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned since leaving Vegas behind, it’s that the quiet strength of a small town and the heart of a man like Edward can weather any storm.

The last echo of gunfire fades into a silence so profound it roars in my ears. I stand there, frozen, the weight of the night’s events heavy and hard to believe.

Edward’s arms wrap around me, a solid presence amidst the chaos. His breath is warm against my ear, his whisper a lifeline pulling me back from the edge. “Ember, you were incredible,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple like a balm to my frayed nerves. “It’s over now.”

I lean into his embrace, my gaze drifting out to the front yard, where the police swarm the area, their authoritative shouts clashing with the distant wail of more sirens. My stomach churns with a question that tastes like fear: Is it ever truly over?

“Should we go?” I ask, my voice a mere thread of sound. “Leave all this behind?”

“If that’s what you want, sweetheart,” he says with a conviction that steadies my trembling heart. “Wherever you are, that’s where I’ll be too.”

I nod, trying to stitch together the fragments of normalcy as I take in my home, windows shattered, decorations torn apart by bullets.

“They ruined everything again,” I say, more to myself than to Edward.

His grip tightens. “We’ll fix it. Together.”

Sheriff Garland and his officers rush into the house, and once they ensure everything is secure, they allow the paramedics in. I watch as they inspect Edward’s injury.

In the background, the police load the gang members who haven’t escaped into the back of their cars. Rebecca and Razor are not among them, having taken off into the night. Sheriff Garland assures us they won’t get far, that his men are on their tail.

The paramedic with pretty blue eyes and gentle hands puts a bandage over the wound in Edward’s arm. “You’ll live, my friend,” she says, her gaze reassuring as she glances at me. “Check the bandage and change it every few hours. Apply some antibiotic ointment and keep it dry for a couple of days. It should heal up fine.”

“Thanks,” I try to say, but my throat is so strangled that it’s only a whisper.

Hours slip away, and the adrenaline that fueled my courage dissipates into the night. In the living room, Edward’s handiwork is evident: the windows boarded up, the door set right enough to close. It should make me feel safe, but instead, a tremor courses through me, violent and unbidden. Tears fall from my eyes as I try, but fail, to smother a sob.

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