Page 46 of Claimed By the Bikers
“Maybe you should talk to someone,” Silas suggests. “There are therapists who specialize in trauma?—”
“I don’t need a shrink.”
“You need something,” Atlas says quietly. “This can’t continue, Garrett. Not when we might have federal agents breathing down our necks soon.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“How?”
“I always handle it.”
But the truth is, I don’t know how much longer I can keep handling it. The dreams have been getting worse since Ember arrived, since I started caring about someone again. Started imagining what I’d do if anything happened to her, how I’d survive losing another person I love.
Because I do love her. All three of us do, even if we haven’t said the words yet. And love makes you vulnerable. Makes you a target. Makes you weak.
By evening, my nerves are stretched thin, and I catch myself snapping at Finn over something trivial.
“Go home,” Atlas tells me after dinner service winds down. “Get some rest.”
“I’m fine to close.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
I want to argue, but the exhaustion hits me suddenly, bone-deep weariness that makes my shoulders sag. “Right. See you in the morning.”
Ember’s in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book. She looks up when I enter, green eyes immediately cataloging my state.
“Rough day?”
“Long day.” I hang my jacket on the hook by the door, noting how my hands are still shaking slightly. “You don’t have to wait up for me.”
“I wasn’t waiting up. I was reading.” She sets down the book and stretches. “But I’m ready for bed if you are.”
We go through our usual routine—lock the doors, turn off lights, brush teeth in comfortable silence. But when we finally lie down, I can’t seem to settle. Every time I close my eyes, I see flashes of things I’d rather forget. Sarah’s face. Katie’s toys scattered across the living room floor. Blood on walls that should have been safe.
“Garrett.” Ember’s voice is soft in the darkness. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
“I’m not carrying anything.”
“Liar.” She turns onto her side, facing me. “Tell me what you need.”
“Sleep. Just sleep.”
“Then sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“It’s how it works tonight.”
I want to argue, want to tell her I don’t need protection, don’t need someone else taking responsibility for my safety. But theexhaustion is pulling me under despite my best efforts, and eventually I stop fighting it.
The dreams come fast and brutal.
I’m back in the house I shared with Sarah, walking through rooms that smell like death and fear. Calling their names, knowing I won’t get an answer, knowing what I’m going to find, but unable to stop looking. The kitchen first, where Sarah always made Katie’s breakfast. Empty. The living room, where they’d watch cartoons on Saturday mornings. Empty.
Then upstairs. Katie’s room first, because I’m a coward who hopes against hope that maybe the monsters left my baby alone. But her bed is torn apart, pink sheets stained with something dark, and her favorite stuffed rabbit is on the floor with its head ripped off.
Sarah’s in our bedroom. What’s left of her.
