Page 11 of Claimed By the Biker Brothers

If I don’t get it under control, I’ll be in no shape to drive.

Deep breaths, Robyn. The nightmare has been over for a long time.

Deep breaths.

“One, two,” I whisper, trying to release the demons from my mind.

Deep breaths.

I close my eyes and the whole world disappears in an endless sea of darkness as I search for the light—the twinkle that will pull me back into my true self. I’ve always been a fighter. I can’t give up on myself because of Calvin’s return. Kyra needs me. Hell,Ineed me.

And in that darkness, three figures emerge.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and brave, those three men have been there since the beginning. They were there when everything fell apart. They helped me pick up the pieces. Last night, they took me in their arms and made me an offer, the kind of offer I cannot bring myself to refuse.

Half an hour later, I pull up outside the clubhouse after texting Ellie and kindly asking her to pick Kyra up for me. “I’m gonna be a little late,” I tell her.

I stare at the building for a moment. “Long time, no see, old friend,” I mutter.

Nothing much has changed in the four years since I last set foot in the Riders’ clubhouse place. The wooden siding is the same, though it’s been refreshed with a layer of dark ebony stain and weatherproof lacquer. It’s packed inside. At a glance, there are at least thirty Riders in there along with guests and friends of the club.

The lights are on in some of the rooms upstairs, where they have suites of offices. The Rogue Riders MC is no ordinary motorcycle club: It’s a business, a concept, a movement even.

“Come on, Robyn, you’ve got this,” I tell myself, trying to summon the courage I need for the next step. My body takes over. My feet move on their own until I walk through the front door just as the jukebox switches to a ‘90s rock ballad. “Oh, wow…”

It’s pretty much the same inside; it’s been beautifully preserved: the sprawling bar with its LED lighting and seemingly endless shelves of pricey booze, the leather seating and private booths with overhead cylinder lamps; the pool tables, and the dart boards haven’t changed either.

“Even the jukebox is the same,” I mumble.

I don’t recognize most of the people there, though. Some I’ve seen around town, of course, but I’ve never met them. I spot the old timers gathered around one of the pool tables. Still rowdy sore losers by the looks of them.

“YOU!” a man’s voice booms across the bar.

“Oh, shit,” I mutter, freezing on the spot until I see him coming.

He practically tumbles toward me, big and burly and angry-looking. But all I can do is laugh as soon as he reaches me.

“Samson Donoghue, you old fart,” I say, my hands resting on my hips.

All eyes are on me now.

“Who are you calling an old fart?” Samson snaps. His grey hair has grown longer and thinner, but he refuses to cut it; he combs it into a tight ponytail instead.

“You, with your slicked-back renegade ponytail from the late ’80s,” I shoot back. “Cut it short, man. Wear your fucking age with dignity.”

It’s banter, and he knows it. But he insists on keeping the deathly glare on for another handful of seconds before he, too, bursts into laughter and takes me in his arms, damn near crushing my ribcage in a bear hug.

“You foul mouthed little devil!” Samson snarls. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’ve missed you.”

“Tell that to someone who’ll believe you,” he scoffs and gently pulls back. “I thought I told you to stay away from this place.”

“And stay away I did, didn’t I? For four whole years,” I quip.

Samson measures me from head to toe, allowing himself a soft smile. “You look so beautiful, my darling Robyn,” he says. “The years have been good to you. Motherhood suits you.”

“I’m blessed with a good daughter,” I reply. “You should come around and meet her.”

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