Page 94 of Single Mom's Bikers

“I’ve handled messy,” Rose snaps, her voice sharp and unyielding. “I was in the army. I know how to keep my head in a fight.”

I turn to her, my mind stuttering over what I just heard. The army? We never rehearsed this part. Where is this coming from?

Chase frowns, crossing his arms. “You were in the army?”

“Yes,” Rose says without hesitation. “Two tours. I know what I’m doing.”

The room falls silent. I don’t speak. It’s best if I don’t ruin whatever front she’s putting on. Her focus remains on the brothers, her jaw tight. “You need someone with experience out there, and that’s me.”

Kip raises an eyebrow. “Experience? Anyone can say they’ve been in the army. How do we know you’re not just talking big?”

She pulls her phone from her pocket. “Fine,” she says, swiping through her gallery. “You want proof? Here.”

She holds the screen up for them to see. Chase leans in first, his eyes narrowing before widening slightly. Kip and Clay follow, their expressions shifting from skepticism to something closer to reluctant respect.

“What is it?” I ask, moving closer despite myself. When Rose doesn’t hand over the phone, I catch a glimpse of the image over her shoulder.

It’s a photo of Rose, younger but unmistakably her, in full military fatigues. She’s standing with a group of soldiers in what looks like a desert outpost, the sun blazing overhead. There’s a rifle slung across her chest and a hard edge to her expression I’ve never seen before.

My stomach twists. I’ve known Rose for years, trusted her with my life—and my daughters’ lives—but this? I’ve never seen this side of her. Never even suspected it.

“Where was this taken?” Chase asks, his voice quieter now.

“Kandahar,” Rose replies, her tone clipped. “First deployment. We were running joint ops with Afghan forces. I can give younames, dates, whatever you need. But we don’t have time for a history lesson right now. Draven’s out there, and you need all the help you can get, and I’ll be damned if I sit back and don’t help the man I love.”

Clay exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“Because it wasn’t relevant,” Rose says sharply. “Until now.”

“It’s relevant if you’re going to be in the field with us,” Kip mutters, but there’s less bite in his tone now.

Chase studies her for a long moment before speaking. “And you’re sure you’re up for this? This isn’t some training exercise or controlled op. If things go south?—”

“I know what happens if things go south,” Rose interrupts, her voice firm. “I’ve been there before. I’m not just some liability, Chase. I know how to fight, I know how to shoot, and I know how to keep my head under pressure.”

It’s Clay who speaks. “Fine,” he says reluctantly. “But you follow orders. No heroics, no going rogue. You stick with us.”

Rose nods. “Understood.”

I can’t stop staring at her. Who is this woman standing in front of me? The Rose I know is smart, resourceful, and fiercely protective—but this Rose? This hardened, battle-ready version of her? It’s like looking at a stranger.

Before I can say anything, Chase turns to me, his voice softening. “You stay here with the girls,” he says. “Lock the doors. Don’t answer for anyone you don’t know.”

I nod automatically, my throat too tight to speak. The three of them head for the door, Rose close behind. Just before they leave, she glances back at me, her expression unreadable.

The door closes, and the sound of their motorcycles fades into the distance. I sink onto the couch, my hands trembling. Upstairs, I hear the girls playing. Their laughter is a painful reminder of what’s at stake.Who is Rose, really?

36

CHASE

Tension coilstight in my gut as I strap on my vest. The weight of it presses against my ribs. The scent of gun oil lingers in the air, mixing with leather, sweat, and the unspoken rage vibrating through the room.

It’s quiet in the clubhouse, the kind of calm that settles before a storm. The sort of quiet that comes before blood spills.

Zane checks his mags, jaw tight, movements clipped. Rick paces near the door, rolling his shoulders like he’s already in the fight. His fingers flex like he’s itching to wrap them around someone’s throat.

Kip sharpens his blade at the table, his usual smirk absent. Clay leans against the wall, arms crossed, tension running through him like a live wire. Teller watches us all, unreadable as ever, but his silence is a blade of its own. We all feel it—the weight of what’s coming. The possibility that not all of us walk away.

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