Page 110 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
Inside, the lodge smells like oatmeal and cinnamon and the kind of soap people buy when they intend to be better to themselves.
I stomp my boots, strip my gloves, hang my jacket on the peg I reinforced after a prospect almost took the wall down with a wet parka.
Cara hums in the kitchen.
Roman’s voice is a low line in the next room, steady and patient.
It is the tone he uses for babies and for men who are ashamed to be crying.
I hear a soft burble and then a laugh.
Luca again, the extrovert.
Gabe grumbles then sweetens.
Marisa laughs like I have not heard her laugh in a year and something inside my ribs releases pressure I did not catalog properly until now.
I walk through the doorway and catch the tableau as if someone has been painting it for hours.
Cruz is on the floor with both boys on a blanket, his hair a mess, a wooden rattle in one hand like a conductor’s baton.
Cara’s at the stove with an empty sling tied across her shoulder, ready for whichever twin decides vertical is the only moral position.
Isla stands at the table building a tower out of measuring cups and small potatoes.
She looks up when she sees me, salutes with a potato, and the tower survives because the kitchen gods are in a good mood.
Marisa is at the sink, sleeves pushed, lips parted on a smile that looks involuntary.
Roman leans in the doorway between them and the hall like a man who does not want to leave a good thing unattended.
“Report,” he says, the word even, the look not.
“Two things missing,” I say. “One box of small sockets from the barn shelf, top left. A stack in the shed adjusted by a deliberate hand. The orchard had a surprise. I bagged it.”
Marisa stills, and Cruz’s eyes sharpen without losing their warmth.
Cara turns down the burner to a whisper.
Isla’s hand hovers over a potato she was about to add to her tower.
“What surprise,” Roman says.
I give him the bag.
The glove sits there, wet and patient. He does not reach for it right away.
He looks at my face to see what I am not saying.
I let him read it.
He takes the pouch and turns it in his palm.
“Stitching,” he says quietly.
“Seven-year stitch,” I answer. “Not Vultures. Not Blessings. One of ours, or someone who wore the costuming.”
Cruz stands slow, leaving the twins with a folded blanket that smells like sleep.
