Page 117 of Claimed By the Bikers
“Stop,” I interrupt before they can argue further. “Doc Morrison, what name would cause the least legal complications down the road?”
He considers this, probably running through scenarios in his mind. “Probably Atlas. He’s the eldest, most established in the community, most likely to be accepted without question.”
“Then Atlas Bishop goes on the birth certificates. But these boys have three fathers who would die for them, and that’s what matters.”
Doc Morrison nods, making notes. “Birth certificates will show Atlas Bishop as father, Ember Bishop as mother. No one needs to know the details beyond that.”
“What about uncles?” Garrett asks with a slight smile.
“Devoted uncles who are present for every milestone, every birthday, every scraped knee.” Doc Morrison grins. “This town’s seen stranger family arrangements. Nobody’s going to ask uncomfortable questions.”
As if to emphasize his point, Connor opens his eyes and looks directly at Silas, who immediately starts singing again. Caleb turns his head toward Garrett’s voice when he speaks softly about all the things he wants to teach them.
“They know,” I realize. “They already know who their fathers are.”
“Bien sûr,” Silas says. “They’ve been listening to our voices, feeling our hands on your belly, learning our scents. We’re not strangers to them.”
“We’re home,” Atlas adds, his voice rough with emotion. “All of us. Finally home.”
Outside, the sun is rising over Wolf Pike, painting the mountains in shades of gold and pink. A new day, a new family, a new chapter in the life we’ve built together from chaos and love and the kind of stubbornness that refuses to accept that some things are impossible.
Connor and Caleb Bishop sleep peacefully on my chest, surrounded by three fathers who will protect them, teach them, and love them.
We’re unconventional. We’re complicated. We’re likely to confuse the heck out of teachers, coaches, and anyone else who tries to understand our family structure.
EMBER
TWO YEARS LATER
Caleb’s balancebike crashes through the hay bales I spent twenty minutes arranging around the archery range. His delighted laughter echoes across our expanded property while Connor shakes his head with the disapproving expression of a very serious two-year-old.
“Caleb,non!” Connor calls out in the mixture of English and French that’s become our household language. “Mama’s targets!”
“It’s okay, Connor,” I tell him, ruffling his dark hair as he pedals his bike over at a much more reasonable speed. “Daddy Silas can fix the targets.”
“Daddy Silas busy.” Connor points toward the forge where his father is working with a group of local teenagers, teaching them metalworking skills through our new apprenticeship program.
“Then Daddy Garrett will fix them.”
“Daddy Garrett building swings.”
True. Garrett’s been constructing an elaborate playground behind the restaurant, complete with swings designed to accommodate children who inherited their fathers’ love of dangerous activities.
“Then Daddy Atlas?—”
“Daddy Atlas doing numbers.”
Also true. Atlas spends most mornings in his expanded office, managing the books for three different businesses and the complicated logistics of our medical supply network.
“Then Mama will fix the targets after we practice.”
Connor nods approvingly while Caleb attempts to ride his balance bike up a tree. The personality differences that Silas predicted in utero have only become more pronounced—Connor careful and thoughtful, Caleb determined to find new ways to give us all heart attacks.
“Caleb Michael Bishop-McKenzie-Delacroix, get down from there!”
He grins at me from four feet off the ground, balanced precariously on a branch that definitely wasn’t designed to support a toddler and a balance bike. “Look, Mama! Flying!”
“You’re not flying, you’re falling waiting to happen.”
