Page 83 of Claimed By the Bikers
“Fifteen minutes. Or I’m moving back to the motel until this baby’s born.”
The threat works. They exchange glances, having one of their wordless conversations, then Atlas nods reluctantly. “Fifteen minutes. But you stay on the property.”
“Deal.”
I escape through the back door before they can change their minds. The afternoon sun feels good on my face, and for the first time in days, nobody’s asking if I need to sit down.
The mailbox sits at the end of our drive, a simple black box that’s survived two shootouts and countless mountain storms. The walk takes maybe three minutes, but I stretch it to five, enjoying the crunch of gravel under my boots and the sound of wind through the pine trees.
Three bills, two supply catalogs, and a hand-addressed envelope with no return address. The envelope gives me pause—we don’t get much personal mail, and anything without identification makes me nervous these days.
But the handwriting is a feminine script.
I tear it open right there in the driveway.
Dear Ember,
Heard through the grapevine that congratulations are in order. Small towns talk, and Mrs. Patterson never could keep a secret. Don’t worry—she only told people she trusts, which in Wolf Pike means everyone who matters.
I wanted you to know that all the ladies are thrilled for you. We’ve been hoping those men would find someone worth settling down for, and you’ve exceeded every expectation. They look at you like you hung the moon, and you look at them like they might actually deserve it.
Being pregnant in a dangerous situation isn’t easy. I know because I’ve been there. But you know what I learned?
Love makes you stronger, not weaker. Those men will move heaven and earth to keep you both safe, and you’ll find reserves of strength you never knew you had.
If you need anything—advice, supplies, or just someone to complain to about overprotective men—you know where to find me. The racing crowd would love to see you again when you’re feeling up to it.
Welcome to the family, honey. All of us.
With love,
Evie Cross
P.S.—Tell your men that putting a pregnant woman under surveillance is grounds for justifiable homicide in most states. We ladies have to stick together.
I fold the letter and tuck it into my jacket pocket, warmth spreading through my chest. The acceptance means more than I realized it would.
The walk back to the house takes longer because I’m savoring the peace.
But as I approach the restaurant, I can hear voices—clipped tones from inside as I approach the restaurant. Through the window, I see Atlas on his phone, face grim. Silas is spreading maps across a table.
My fifteen minutes of normalcy just ended.
I push through the front door, and three heads turn toward me with expressions I recognize—the same look they had the night of the cartel attack.
“What’s happened?” I ask.
“Los Serpientes just hit the Morrison storage facility,” Atlas says, ending his call. “Took out two of Jake’s men.”
“Shit.”
Garrett slides a loaded rifle across the bar. “They left a message spray-painted on Jake’s office wall.”
“What kind of message?” I ask.
“‘The gringo bitch dies soon.’”
“They’re coming for me.”
