Page 74 of Baby for the Bikers

MADDOX

The soundof Rowan’s bike fades into the distance, but the image of her and Ryder coming down those stairs together is burned into my brain. The flush in her cheeks. The slight sway in her walk. The way my brother couldn’t keep his eyes off her. And that fucking kiss on her cheek while he stared right at me—marking territory like we’re goddamn animals.

I wait until I can’t hear her engine anymore. Then I turn to Ryder, who’s still watching the door like he can see through it to her retreating form.

“You asshole,” I say, my voice deceptively calm.

He turns to me, expression neutral. “Problem?”

The casual dismissal snaps something in me. I close the distance between us in three quick strides and drive my fist into his jaw with every ounce of frustration I’ve been carrying for days.

Ryder’s head snaps back, but he recovers fast—he always does. His counterattack is swift, a straight jab to my ribs that knocks the wind out of me. I stumble back, gasping, but manage to dodge his follow-up swing.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he growls, the most emotion I’ve heard from him in weeks.

“You know exactly what’s wrong,” I spit back, lunging forward to tackle him into a display rack of parts. Metal clatters to the concrete as we hit the ground, grappling for dominance. “First, Brick disappears with her. Now you’re fucking her upstairs?”

Ryder gets a hand on my throat, flipping our positions. “Jealous?” he sneers. “Is that what this is about?”

I buck my hips, throwing him off balance enough to break his grip. “It’s about respect,” I pant, scrambling to my feet. “It’s about loyalty.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” Ryder wipes blood from his split lip, circling me with the predatory focus he usually reserves for fights that aren’t with family. “Like you haven’t had her too.”

The confirmation that all three of us have been with her hits harder than I expected. I knew, of course. We all suspected. But hearing it out loud makes it real in a way that fury alone can’t express.

I rush him again, catching him in the stomach with my shoulder. We crash into a workbench, tools scattering as we exchange blows—none pulled, none softened by the fact that we’re brothers. This has been brewing since the moment we discovered we all wanted the same woman, a powder keg just waiting for a spark.

“She’s not just some girl,” I snarl between punches. “She’s?—”

“She’s what?” Ryder’s fist connects with my cheekbone, sending pain radiating through my skull. “Yours? Is that what you think?”

“At least I’m honest about what I want!” I swing wildly, clipping his shoulder. “You’ve been sneaking around, acting like?—”

The garage door rolls open, cutting off whatever accusation I was about to hurl. Brick’s Jeep pulls in, followed closely by a sleek black motorcycle I recognize immediately—Chase Cross.

Ryder and I freeze mid-fight, my fist still tangled in his shirt, his hand pulled back for another blow. Brick steps out of the Jeep, taking in the scene—the overturned displays, scattered tools, and blood on both our faces—with a tightening of his jaw that speaks volumes.

“What the fuck is going on?” he demands, voice deadly quiet.

Neither of us answers. What can we say? That we’re fighting over a woman like teenagers? That the unspoken rules between brothers—rules we’ve lived by our entire lives—are crumbling because of one baker with green eyes and a smile that gets under your skin?

Chase dismounts his bike with fluid grace, helmet tucked under his arm. His expression is more amused than concerned as he surveys the destruction.

“Let me guess,” he says dryly. “Woman trouble?”

Ryder and I separate reluctantly, both of us breathing hard. The fire hasn’t gone out, but Brick’s presence acts as a damper on the worst of it. He’s always been the peacekeeper, the buffer between Ryder’s intensity and my impulse.

“Upstairs,” Brick orders, not waiting for a response. “Now.”

We follow like chastised children, Chase bringing up the rear with a barely concealed smirk. The apartment—the same spacewhere Ryder had Rowan not thirty minutes ago—feels smaller with all four of us inside.

Brick goes straight to the fridge, pulling out four beers. He tosses one to each of us, the action so familiar it momentarily cuts through the tension. How many fights has he broken up over the years? How many times has he stepped between us when tempers flared?

“Spit it out,” he says, twisting the cap off his bottle. “What started this?”

I take a long pull of beer, buying time. The cold liquid soothes my throat but does nothing for the burn of anger still simmering beneath my skin.

“He fucked Rowan,” I say finally, gesturing toward Ryder with my bottle. “Right here. In this room.”

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