Page 70 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
There’s a concerned text from Lidia, more than a few missed calls from Nico, and one particularly nasty message about the boys that makes my fists clench.
It takes me a few breaths to stabilize myself, but then I remember I am somewhere safe although it has taken me the longest time to realize it.
The twins doze in the room across the hall.
The door is ajar, a strip of pale winter light laid across the floorboards.
After sending a quick text to Lidia apologizing about the missed check-in and Subaru and promising I’m safe, I slide out of bed and pull on wool socks, tug Cruz’s flannel over my tank top, and sweep my hair up with the fork I found on the nightstand. It should look ridiculous. It feels like armor.
I move quietly, the way you learn to move when sleep is a precious animal you do not want to scare.
Luca has claimed Deacon’s old crib, the one with the smooth rails Cruz sanded last night until the wood shone like bread right before the glaze.
Gabe is in Isla’s crib, pleased with its history, stomach up, hands open like a prince that owns the sun.
I touch each soft brow with two fingers.
Both boys are warm.
Both boys smell like formula and clean cotton.
My ribs ache with how right they look in this room and how wrong I have felt for months.
The lodge kitchen calls like it did the first time I stepped into it, when the storm made everyone damp and beautiful and strange.
The chalkboard still has Ravenwell note on it, and someone has added extra lines under it.
Deacon, probably.
His underlines always look like they could hold a roof.
I tuck the flannel tighter and start the morning the only way I know how.
I set up the polenta because polenta, done right, teaches patience and forgiveness at the same time.
Stone-milled cornmeal into a pot.
Water, a pinch of salt, rosemary stripped with my thumbnail, a clove of garlic smashed until it remembers to be kind.
The first few minutes require attention so it does not think about clumping. After that, it becomes a meditation.
Stir, scrape, stir again. The wooden spoon finds its own path.
Coffee next.
The machine waits on the counter like a dog that knows every trick.
I consider the cold brew jar and leave it where it is, because Roman hates it on principle, and because Deacon will enjoy the performance later.
I pour water through grounds that smell like New York in December and pour myself a small cup of the real thing, since I expect to be judged by a man with storm eyes and a list of rules carved into wood.
The first sip is a small mercy. I hold it in my mouth and let my shoulders drop.
Apple cider goes into a pot with a studded orange, barky cinnamon, two cloves, and star anise for drama.
Heat unlocks the perfume and the whole kitchen begins to smell like sugar and firewood and a Christmas market.
I keep the flame low so it never boils off what makes it worth drinking.
