Page 123 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

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We mark his routes.

We cauterize the places he thinks are soft. We do it without noise.

We do it without asking her to relive what he did.

Upstairs, a small sound rises and settles.

One of the boys, then silence.

Cara knows how to lift and soothe without waking a house.

Cruz hums sometimes when he sleeps.

Deacon dreams in lists he never says out loud.

Marisa will tuck the ribbon into a drawer and press her palm to it like a promise.

I push the chair back and stand.

My knees complain, old injuries rehearsing old lines.

I ignore them.

I pick up the phone and slide it into the drawer.

I stack the folders and kill two monitors.

I leave one running, the south line, the place the wind likes to lie.

It’s time to end this once and for all.

24

DEACON

The lodge settles the way old houses do when they know who sleeps inside.

Cara hums once and the twins switch from soft complaint to softer breath.

Isla laughs in her dreams, one bright burst, then quiet.

Cruz lays a fresh log, checks the damper, leaves the hearth breathing.

Roman takes the stairs to the basement without a word.

I make a round of the doors like always, hand on latch, eye on hinge, and the south door earns a second check because habit is a kind of prayer.

I should sleep.

I do not.

I pour black coffee, no sugar, and drink it like penance while the snow ticks the panes.

Then I carry my cup to the back storage room and open the false panel behind the gear chest.

The small desk is tidy the way a confession booth is tidy.

The burner laptop wakes with a quiet blink.

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