Page 81 of Single Mom's Bikers

And I protect what’s mine. Even if I don’t know what I’m protecting them from.

Yet.

After the girls are finally asleep, I find Evie in the kitchen, gripping her phone like a lifeline. Rose’s tense and angry voice carries through the speaker.

“They’re getting closer,” Rose says. “You can’t keep pretending?—”

“I’m not pretending.” Evie’s voice shakes. “I’m protecting them.”

“By lying? To everyone? The brothers deserve?—”

“Don’t.” Evie notices me then, quickly ending the call. “The girls go down okay?”

“Three bedtime stories and two glasses of water.” I move closer, watching her try to compose herself. “Want to tell me what that was about?”

“Just Rose being overprotective.” She busies herself with dishes, avoiding my eyes. “You know how she gets.”

“Do I?” I lean against the counter. “Because lately, I’m not sure I know anything about either of you.”

Her hands still in the soapy water. “Zane…”

“Those men weren’t Death’s Head.” I keep my voice gentle. “Were they?”

“No.” The word comes out barely audible.

“And they’re not just random fans from the video.”

She turns. “Please don’t ask. I can’t?—”

I catch her hands, pulling her close. “Talk to me. Let me help.”

Instead of answering, she kisses me. It’s desperate, hungry—a clear attempt at distraction. When she slides her hands under my shirt, I almost let her succeed.

“Evie.” I catch her wrists gently. “This won’t make the questions go away.”

“No.” She presses closer. “But it might make me forget them for a while.”

“Don’t,” I whisper against her mouth.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t kiss me like you’re leaving.”

She stiffens slightly before forcing relaxation. “I’m right here.”

But her kisses stay desperate, her touches urgent. When I lift her onto the counter, she wraps her legs around me immediately.

I should push for answers. Should demand truth instead of letting her distract me with pleasure. But when she guides my hand between her thighs, I’m lost.

She’s already wet. My fingers slide easily inside while my thumb circles her clit. Her head falls back, exposing her throat.

“Please,” she begs. “Make me forget. Just for a little while.”

So I do. I use my fingers and mouth to drive coherent thoughts from her mind. When she comes, it’s with tears on her cheeks.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur, holding her through aftershocks. “Whatever’s coming, I’ve got you.”

She clings tighter, face pressed to my neck. “You can’t promise that.”

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