Page 7 of Her Savior Biker
“You know?”
“The way you positioned yourself when I asked about it. The way you answered. Nobody talks about a playground accident like they’re confessing to murder.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “He’s coming.”
Two words that tell me everything and nothing. “Who?”
“Someone who thinks he owns me.” Her laugh is bitter, broken. “Someone who doesn’t like being told no.”
I pour the soup into two bowls, slide one across the counter to her. “How long were you together?”
“Two months.” She wraps her hands around the bowl like it’s an anchor. “We dated for two months, and he thought that gave him the right to make decisions about my son.”
Two months. Hell. I’ve had one-night stands that lasted longer than that.
“What kind of decisions?”
Shannon’s grip tightens on the bowl. “Discipline. Structure. All the things a boy needs, according to him.” Her voice goes flat, detached. “Aiden spilled juice on his uniform. Accident. Just being three years old. But that was disrespectful, apparently. Required correction.”
The rage that fills me is white-hot and instant. I set my spoon down carefully, afraid I’ll break something if I keep holding it. “So you left.”
“So I left.” She takes a sip of soup, hands shaking slightly. “Packed everything I could carry and ran.”
“Good.”
She looks up at me, surprised. “Good?”
“You protected your kid. That’s what a good mother does.”
Tears well up in her eyes, and she blinks them back furiously. “He says I’m overreacting. That it was just discipline, that I’m too soft on Aiden. That if I don’t come back, he’ll make sure I lose custody.”
“He can try.” My voice comes out harder than I intended. “But threats are just words unless he’s got the power to back them up.”
Shannon’s laugh is hollow. “He’s military police. He’s got friends, connections, authority. I’m a single mother with no money and no family. Who do you think they’ll believe?”
That explains the reach, the confidence. Guys like that think the uniform makes them untouchable. Think it gives them the right to push around anyone who can’t push back.
They’re usually right.
“You expecting him to find you here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. He’s resourceful.” She sets the bowl down, barely touched. “I keep thinking I should keep running, but my car’s dead and I’ve got eighteen dollars and a three-year-old who doesn’t understand why we can’t go home.”
“You expecting me to throw you out?”
She meets my eyes for the first time since she started talking. “Aren’t you?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe relief. “Why?”
Because someone should have helped you sooner. Because that kid deserves better than to grow up afraid. Because the way you fought for him reminds me of someone I used to know.
“Let me worry about that,” I say instead.
We finish the soup in silence, her confession a raw nerve between us. When she gets up to wash the bowls, I watch her move around the small kitchen like she belongs here. Like this could be normal, domestic, safe.
It’s a dangerous thought.
