Page 85 of Baby for the Bikers

Brick hesitates, always the responsible one, but when Rowan slides up next to him and places a hand on his arm, he caves instantly.

“You’re right,” he says, his eyes never leaving her face. “We’re done for tonight.”

As we gather our things, Rowan clears her throat. “I have something for you,” she says, suddenly looking almost shy. “A little present. But you’ll have to wait until we get home to see it.”

The way she says “home”—like it’s always been hers, like she belongs there with us—does something to my chest. Tightens it in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to dowith that tattoo on my wrist, the one I got with my brothers after we resigned from Cerberus.

The drive back is torture. I follow behind Brick’s truck, where Rowan sits in the passenger seat. Even from my bike, I can see him struggling to keep his eyes on the road instead of on her. Maddox rides beside me, occasionally revving his engine like a kid showing off. Like she can’t already tell how desperate we all are.

When we pull into the driveway, I expect us to fall on each other the moment we’re through the door. Instead, Rowan surprises us by heading straight for the kitchen.

“You guys should clean up,” she says, already pulling things from the fridge. “I’ll make something quick.”

“You don’t have to cook,” Brick protests, but it’s half-hearted at best.

“I want to,” she insists. “Go shower. You all smell like French fries and coffee grounds.”

It’s such a normal, domestic moment in the middle of this situation that I almost laugh. But she’s right—we’ve been working since six this morning, between the garage and the diner. And whatever happens tonight, I don’t want to smell like grease and cooking oil when it does.

In my bathroom, I take the fastest shower of my life, scrubbing away the day’s work while trying not to think about what’s waiting downstairs. About what’s going to happen once dinner is over. About how we’re going to work out the logistics of three men and one woman in a bed.

By the time I get back downstairs, dressed in clean joggers and a black T-shirt, the kitchen smells incredible. Rowan’s made pasta with some kind of herb sauce, simple but perfect. Maddox is already at the island, watching her move around our kitchen.

Brick joins us a minute later, and for a while, we just eat and talk like it’s any other night.

“So,” she says when we’re nearly finished, setting down her wine glass. “About that present I mentioned.”

The air in the room changes instantly, all of us going still.

“I’m listening,” Brick says, his voice dropping to that tone that means business.

Rowan stands up, smoothing her hands over her dress. “It’s not something I can wrap,” she explains. “It’s more something I have to show you.”

She turns her back to us. “Can someone help with this zipper?”

Maddox is out of his seat in a flash, crossing to her. I watch as he slowly pulls the zipper down, revealing a strip of skin that makes my mouth go dry.

But instead of letting the dress fall, she holds it against her chest, turning to face us again. “I want to explain something first.”

She takes a deep breath. “Today at the spa, I was thinking about us. About what we’re doing. And I realized I wanted something to remember this by, no matter what happens. Something permanent.”

“Permanent?” Brick echoes, leaning forward.

“I got inked today,” she continues, turning her back to us again. This time, she lets the dress fall to her waist, exposing smooth skin that practically begs to be touched.

She glances over her shoulder, a small smile playing at her lips. “It’s lower.”

The dress drops to the floor, leaving her in nothing but black lace panties. But it’s what she’s pointing to that knocks the breath from my lungs.

Just below her hip, partially hidden by the lace, is a small tattoo. Three letters intertwined—B, M, R. Our initials.

“Fuck,” Maddox breathes beside me.

Brick moves first, dropping to his knees in front of her to get a closer look. His fingers hover just above the mark like he’s afraid to touch it.

“It’s still a little sore,” she says.

I can’t help myself—I join him on the floor, needing to see it up close. Our names are permanently etched on her skin. The most primal, possessive part of me roars in satisfaction.

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