Page 67 of Claimed By the Bikers
“Give us a sec,” I call back, helping Ember off the counter. We straighten our clothes, wiping away the last traces of chaos. When I open the door, Atlas and Garrett are waiting in the hallway, faces serious but steady.
“Deputies need your statement,” Garrett tells Ember. “Self-defense, open and shut. You’re good.”
“And the cartel?” she asks, voice firm now, all traces of paranoia buried.
Atlas’s eyes narrow. “They’ll come. This was just a probe. But we’ll be ready.”
Ember nods, her posture all defiance. “Good. I’m not running.”
“Damn right,” Garrett says, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You handled yourself out there. Bottle and all.”
I slide an arm around her shoulders, feeling her lean into me. “You’re one of us, chérie. Always.”
“Then let’s get ready for the fight,” she says, her voice pure steel.
“Exactement,” I say, and we step back into the chaos, together.
20
EMBER
The restaurant lookslike a war zone in the morning light. Shattered glass everywhere, bullet holes stitching the walls, dark stains I try not to look at too closely.
Atlas told the staff to take the day off, no explanations, just his word they’d be paid. Nobody argued. After last night, nobody wanted to walk back in until the blood was gone and the bullet holes patched over.
The familiar booths where I’ve served countless meals are overturned, riddled with holes, transformed into makeshift barricades.
“Insurance is going to have a field day with this,” Atlas mutters, surveying the damage with his coffee mug in hand.
“Assuming they cover acts of war,” Garrett adds, sweeping glass into a pile near what used to be the front door.
“They’ll cover it. I made sure the policy was comprehensive when we opened.” Atlas takes a sip of coffee and winces. “Though explaining how this was self-defense might get creative.”
I’m mopping blood from the kitchen floor, trying to keep my hands busy while my mind processes everything that happened last night. The weight of the mop handle feels strange after gripping a rifle, after driving a broken bottle into someone’s throat.
Every few minutes, I catch myself listening for gunfire.
“You okay over there?” Silas asks where he’s boarding up the front windows with plywood.
“Just thinking,” I tell him.
“About?”
“How normal this feels. Like cleaning up after a firefight is just part of running a restaurant.”
“In our world, it kind of is,” Atlas says matter-of-factly. “This won’t be the last time someone tries to muscle in on our territory.”
“Comforting thought.”
“Reality. Better to accept it now than pretend we’re living some peaceful small-town life.”
He’s right, but it’s still jarring. Three months ago, my biggest worry was maintaining my cover story.
“What’s the plan?” I ask, wringing bloody water from the mop.
“Short-term? Get this place functional again. We reopen tomorrow night, business as usual.” Atlas gestures around the destroyed dining room. “Can’t let them think they shut us down.”
“And long-term?”
