Page 112 of Claimed By the Bikers
Silas emerges from his forge, metal shavings caught in his dark hair, carrying a tiny mobile made from hammered silver shapes. “Finished Connor’s mobile last night. Caleb’s will be ready by tomorrow.”
“They’re not even born yet, and you’re already spoiling them.”
“Bien sûr. That’s what fathers do.”
The ultrasound photos on the refrigerator door show two distinct profiles—Baby A with his thumb in his mouth, Baby B with what the technician called “an active personality.” Connor and Caleb, though we won’t know which is which until they decide to make their appearance.
“Coffee’s getting cold,” Garrett observes, settling into the chair beside me.
“Coffee makes them kick like soccer players.”
“Maybe they’ll be athletes.”
“Maybe they’ll be troublemakers like their fathers.”
Atlas returns from loading the truck, keys jangling in his hand. “Ready for today’s adventure?”
“Do I have a choice?” I ask.
“You could stay home and let us handle the distribution.”
“And miss seeing Mrs. Henderson’s face when she gets her new insulin pump? Not likely.”
The drive to the first stop requires careful navigation of mountain roads that weren’t designed for pregnant passengers. Every bump sends sharp jabs through my lower back, andthe seat belt cuts across my stomach at an angle that makes breathing difficult.
“Comfortable?” Silas asks from the driver’s seat, adjusting the rearview mirror to watch me.
“Comfortable as someone carrying two watermelons can be.”
“Almost over,” Atlas says from the passenger seat. “Two more weeks, according to Doc Morrison.”
“Two weeks feels like two years.”
But I wouldn’t trade this discomfort for anything. These babies are the culmination of everything we’ve built together—love born from chaos, family forged from the most unlikely circumstances.
Mrs. Henderson lives in a trailer at the end of a dirt road that barely qualifies as drivable. Seventy-three years old, diabetic since her forties, abandoned by insurance companies who consider her a liability rather than a person.
“Ember!” She greets me from her front porch, face lighting up at the sight of our truck. “Look at you, honey. Those babies are going to be here any day now.”
“Two more weeks, supposedly.”
“Babies come when they’re ready, not when doctors predict. I had five, and not one of them followed the schedule.”
Atlas and Garrett unload the insulin pump and supplies while Silas helps me navigate the uneven steps to her living room. The space is small but immaculately clean, filled with photographs of grandchildren and great-grandchildren who live too far away to visit regularly.
“This is incredible,” Mrs. Henderson breathes, examining the insulin pump with care. “I never thought I’d have one of these.”
“Insurance should have covered it years ago,” Atlas says, his voice carrying the anger we all feel about systems that fail the people who need them most.
“Insurance doesn’t care about old ladies in trailers. But you do, and that makes all the difference.”
We spend an hour setting up the device and teaching her how to operate it. Simple technology that will transform her daily life, allowing her to maintain stable blood sugar without the constant injections that have become increasingly difficult for her arthritic hands.
“How can I ever repay you?” she asks as we prepare to leave.
“Just stay healthy,” I tell her. “That’s payment enough.”
“These babies are lucky to have parents like you. All four of you,” she adds with a knowing smile that suggests small-town gossip travels faster than we realize.
