Page 81 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
He does not wake.
The twins sigh through whatever baby dream they are having, and I swear something in my chest unknots two inches.
I could stay and watch them breathe.
I could, but the quiet will not let me.
A prickle moves along my neck and does not fade.
The floor creaks in the hall, the familiar wood sound with a small wrong under it, like a violin that needs a quarter turn.
I step back into the hall and freeze.
A shadow goes past the frosted pane of the back door.
A flicker more than a shape. Not big. Not long.
Real enough that my skin knows before my mind votes.
I hold my breath without deciding to.
Then there is a crack downstairs.
Not loud.
The sound of cold glass choosing a new line.
A second sound that is not weather lands under it.
A soft scrape.
I swear I feel the house inhale.
My hands move before my thoughts.
The hallway drawer sits under the little table where they keep flashlights and extra batteries and one of Roman’s spare pistols because rules work better when they have teeth.
I pull the drawer. It is open already.
Empty.
The slot where the flashlight lives is a clean outline.
The felt-lined groove for the pistol looks like a mouth that decided not to speak.
For a heartbeat, panic comes up like water.
I close the drawer on it and push a dry breath past my teeth. Roman is here.
Deacon is here.
Cruz is in the nursery with both boys and a hand that wakes at the weirdest squeak.
That is logic.
Logic is useful when fear tries to be dramatic.
I put one hand on the railing and go down barefoot.
