Page 10 of Cipher's Baby Girl
"Good, niña," Abuela says as I stir the stew in a figure-eight pattern, scraping the bottom to prevent sticking exactly as she showed me. Her weathered hands deftly chop onions beside me, knife moving with practiced precision. "You learn quick."
Pride blooms in my chest at her approval. These mornings in Abuela's kitchen are my anchor—a small pocket of predictability in this unfamiliar world where leather-clad men with weapons move through hallways and mysterious conversations happen behind closed doors.
“But you work too hard," she adds, her dark eyes studying me with unsettling perception. "Always cleaning, cooking, scrubbing. The floors, they do not need to shine so much that I see this wrinkled old face in them."
Heat crawls up my neck. Caught. "I just want to help," I murmur, focusing intently on the stew, watching the carrots tumble through the rich broth.
"Help is good. Breaking your back is not." She taps my arm with her wooden spoon, leaving a dot of sauce on my skin. "You are not a servant here."
But I am. Or at least, I should be. These people rescued me, clothed me, fed me, and sheltered me when I had nothing. I have nothing to offer in return except labor. My worth has always been measured by my usefulness. Without it, what claim do I have to the space I occupy, the air I breathe?
"I like helping," I say instead, offering a small smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.
Abuela makes a sound between a snort and a laugh. She points her spoon at me like a weapon. "I see you. I know what you do."
I just shrug and pretend I have no idea what she’s talking about.
After helping Abuela prepare lunch, I slip away with a bucket of cleaning supplies. The compound is relatively quiet at this hour—most members either sleeping off the previous night or out on what they call “runs.”
In just a week, I've mastered the art of reading the rhythm of the clubhouse—when to make myself scarce, which rooms to avoid when raised voices filter through closed doors.
I start with the common room, wiping down tables and straightening chairs. The work keeps my hands busy and my mind quiet. If I'm honest with myself, it's also an excuse to wander the compound, hoping for a glimpse of him—Cipher.
Just thinking his name sends electricity through my veins, a shiver that starts at my scalp and tingles down to my fingertips. I haven't spoken to him since the night of my rescue, but I feel his presence constantly—like a shadow just outside my field of vision, a prickle on my skin.
I'm scrubbing an already spotless table when the hair on my arms rises. That feeling again—the weight of eyes on me, heavyand intense. I straighten slowly, turning toward the hallway entrance, but all I see is the empty corridor stretching into shadows.
I know he was there. I felt him.
The sensation is so familiar now—this awareness that slides over my skin whenever he's near. I’m not imagining it. Am I? Could I be creating connections where none exist? Perhaps trauma has finally fractured my perception of reality.
I shake off the unsettling thought and move to the hallway bathroom, armed with fresh cleaning supplies. This bathroom sees heavy use from members and always needs attention. The sharp smell of bleach burns my nostrils as I scrub, the physical discomfort almost a relief from the constant uncertainty that plagues my waking hours.
As I'm on my knees scrubbing the base of a toilet, the door swings open. I freeze, momentarily trapped between embarrassment and the instinctive fear of being cornered in a small space.
"Oh shit, sorry!" a male voice exclaims.
I glance up to see one of the bikers—younger than most members I've met, maybe early twenties—backing out the door, his face flushed with embarrassment as he quickly zips up the fly of his jeans and refastens them.
"I'll come back," he says hurriedly.
"No, it's okay," I reply, getting to my feet and pressing myself against the wall to try to squeeze by him. My heart hammers, but I force myself to stand straight. "I was just cleaning. You can use it."
He hesitates, studying me with curious brown eyes. He's tall but less bulky than most of the brothers, with a lean build and boyish features that haven't quite hardened into the intimidating mask the older members wear. His leather vest has a patch that reads "RASH,” which I think is his name.
"You're Rose, right?" he asks, making no move to actually use the bathroom, or to let me pass.
I nod, wiping my hands on the rag tucked into my pocket. "And you're Rash?"
He grins, dimples appearing in his cheeks. There's pride in his expression as he runs his fingers over the embroidered patch on his cut. "I'm sorry about...you know. Barging in with my pants undone. Seems like every time I see you, you're cleaning something."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I like to keep busy."
His expression turns serious. "You know you don't have to, right? We have prospects for the shit work. Cleaning toilets is actually their job." He gestures around the bathroom. "I would know. I was a prospect for two years before getting patched in. Cleaned more toilets than I care to remember."
"I don't mind," I say automatically. "I want to earn my keep."
Something like understanding passes over his face. "Yeah, I get that. But seriously, you're not a prospect or a servant. You're family now."
