Page 7 of Cipher's Baby Girl
The unexpected physical contact makes me stiffen, my muscles locking with the instinctive fear of being touched. But there's something so genuinely maternal in her embrace—so different from any touch I've known—that I find myself relaxing slightly, unsure how to respond exactly, but not wanting to pull away.
"Thank you for having me," I say politely when she releases me.
Abuela waves away my formality with a dismissive flick of her hand. "Sit, sit. The food is almost ready."
I take a seat at one of the large tables, feeling awkward and out of place as more people filter into the kitchen.
“Luna is still at the hospital with Saint sitting vigil at her bedside,” Angel explains before introducing me to a huge man named Blade.
“And this is his ol’ lady, Sophie,” Angel gestures to a pretty blonde who greets me with a kind smile. I wonder if maybe calling her an ol’ lady is some kind of inside joke since Sophie isn’t old at all. In fact, she’s maybe around my age and looks to be much younger than Blade.
The kitchen fills with voices and laughter as more club members arrive for dinner. I sit quietly, observing the easy camaraderie, the way they move around each other with the familiarity of family. I've never experienced anything like this—a group of people who genuinely seem to enjoy each other'scompany, who touch casually without flinching, who laugh without looking over their shoulders first.
I keep my eyes lowered, responding politely when spoken to but otherwise trying to blend into the background. The less noticeable I am, the less likely I am to become a target.
Then I feel it—the weight of someone's gaze on me like a physical touch. The hairs on my arms rise, and a shiver runs down my spine. I glance up and catch a glimpse of my rescuer standing in the doorway, his dark blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch and my heart rate soar.
He looks different in the warm light of the kitchen—no less dangerous, but somehow more human. The scar along his face is menacing. His dark hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, revealing the sharp angles of his face—square jaw, prominent cheekbones. He's beautiful in the way sleek predators are beautiful—all contained power and lethal grace.
The moment our eyes meet, something electric passes between us—a sizzling current that makes my skin tingle. Then, without a word, without even acknowledging me, he turns abruptly and walks away, his broad shoulders rigid beneath his leather.
A strange disappointment washes over me. He was the one who scooped me up and cradled me in his arms as though I were rare and valuable. But now it seems as though he can’t stand to look at me.
Why? Have I done something wrong?
Angel follows my gaze, her expression thoughtful. “Cipher is… complicated," she says carefully. "Brilliant but intense. He doesn't connect easily with people."
"Cipher," I say the name softly, testing it on my tongue. It tastes like a secret. He connected withme, I think to myself, but don't say aloud. I felt the connection. I know he felt it too. There was something in the way he looked at me, the way his voicesoftened when he spoke to me. As if I mattered. As if I were worth protecting.
Abuela places a heaping plate of food in front of me—some kind of stew with rice and beans. The portion is enormous, more food than I’d normally consume in three days.
"I can't possibly eat all this," I say, my eyes widening.
Abuela pats my shoulder, her touch gentle but firm. "Eat what you can, niña."
The food is delicious, rich with flavors I've never experienced. I’m used to functional meals—plain, cheap, and barely enough to silence hunger pangs. This explosion of tastes is almost overwhelming. I eat slowly, savoring each morsel, stopping when my contracted stomach protests that it can't hold another bite.
After dinner, I insist on helping with the cleanup. Abuela tries to shoo me away, but I need to feel useful, to earn my keep somehow. Idleness was punishable in the home I came from. Work was safety.
"Please," I say quietly. "I want to help."
Abuela studies me for a moment, her dark eyes surprisingly perceptive. She finally relents, allowing me to dry dishes as she washes them.
"You are a good girl," she says approvingly as I carefully stack the dried plates. "But here, you are not a worker. You are family."
Family. The word feels foreign, dangerous even.
Later, Angel walks me back to my room. "Goodnight, Rose," she says when we reach my door. “There’s a lock on your door. No one will bother you, but it might help you feel safer."
I nod, grateful for her understanding. After she leaves, I turn the lock and sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly uncertain what to do with myself. I’m free.
Free from my awful stepfather.
Free from the shipping container.
Free from the men who bought and sold me like I was merchandise.
But freedom means choices, and I'm out of practice with those.
