Page 36 of Baby for the Bikers

“We’ll all go,” I decide. “Need to check the new security system anyway.”

My mind keeps replaying Matthews’s words as we drive to the diner. Cypher wants us alive. Wants to take his time. I’ve seen the aftermath of his “attention” before—what was left of operatives who crossed him.

I won’t let that happen to my brothers. And I sure as hell won’t let anyone associated with us get caught in the cross fire.

Especially not a certain baker with a gift for wheelies and a smile that’s somehow become essential to my peace of mind.

15

ROWAN

The shopping bagsrustle as I nudge my apartment door shut with my hip. I’ve never been one for retail therapy, but after three hours at Wolf Pike’s modest mall, I feel almost normal. Like I’m just another woman buying necessities.

I dump the bags on my couch, surveying my haul. Four pairs of jeans that actually fit. Three tops that don’t scream, “I’ve been living out of a duffel bag.” Work shoes that won’t kill my feet during double shifts. Nothing extravagant, but more than I’ve owned at once in months.

I should be focusing on saving every penny, but the unexpected morning off was too good to waste. I still don’t know why Brick closed the diner until noon, but I’m not complaining. A few hours to myself felt like a luxury after eight straight days of work.

And if I’m being honest, I needed the distraction after last night. I can’t believe I showed off on Maddox’s bike like that. What was I thinking? One moment of pride could unravel everything I’ve worked so hard to hide.

The memory of the brothers’ stunned faces makes me smile despite myself. But that smile fades as I replay the wheelie. Too smooth. Too practiced. The kind of skill that comes from years of training, not “learning a few years ago,” as I claimed.

And then I hugged them. All three of them. What possessed me to launch myself at Brick like that? The feel of his solid body against mine, his hands automatically finding my waist—I can still feel the imprint of his touch hours later.

At least the promise of borrowing one of their bikes was worth the risk. Freedom on two wheels again, the wind in my face, the power between my thighs—I’ve missed it more than I care to admit.

My phone chimes from the kitchen counter, pulling me from my thoughts. An unsaved number lights up the screen, sending a spike of adrenaline through my system. I stare at it, paralyzed for three rings, before I swipe to answer.

“Hello?” I keep my voice neutral, my body already tensing for flight.

“Ro? It’s me.”

Relief floods me so intensely I have to sit down. “Em? What are you doing? We agreed?—”

“I know, I know. No direct contact unless it’s an emergency.” Emma’s voice sounds different—more confident than when I left her at that bus station three months ago. “But I almost got caught yesterday.”

My blood freezes. “What happened?”

“Two of Dad’s men were on campus. I spotted them by the library.” She lowers her voice. “I think Cypher’s expanding his search.”

Hearing Dad’s name—his chosen name—sends a shiver through me. Cypher, founder of the Vipers MC. My father. The monster we ran away from.

“Are you safe?” I press the phone closer to my ear as if to draw her closer.

“I’m good. Better than good, actually.” There’s a smile in her voice now. “Can we switch to video? I want to show you something.”

I hesitate. Video calls can be traced and intercepted, but the need to see my sister’s face overwhelms my caution. I tap the camera icon, holding my breath until her image appears.

“Holy shit.” I can’t help laughing. “Your hair!”

Emma grins back at me, her once-brown locks now electric blue, cut in an edgy style that frames her face. Multiple piercings line her ears, and there’s even one in her eyebrow.

“Like it? No one would recognize me now.” She turns her head, showing off the full effect. “The scholarship program finally processed my asylum request. I’m officially Emily Callahan, not Emma Cypher. We have the same fake surname now.”

Relief and pride swell in my chest. The plan worked. The arrangements I made with the scholarship director—explaining just enough about our situation to get her protection without revealing the full extent of who we’re running from—paid off.

“You look amazing, Emma—Emily.” My voice catches. “How’s school?”

“Incredible.” Her eyes light up. “My roommate’s awesome. Classes are challenging, but in a good way. No one knows who I am here.”

---