Page 83 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
Cruz’s dish towel hangs like a surrender flag on the back of a chair.
Someone with neat hands stacked spoons in size order.
The house looks normal enough to make a person feel foolish.
My feet stay cold.
I pad up the stairs and he breathes behind me, quiet and present.
In the nursery, nothing has changed except my pulse.
Luca puckers.
Gabe issues one soft complaint and sinks back into sleep.
Cruz lies where I left him.
I step in and lay my palm on each small belly and feel the rise and fall. I count four.
I count four again.
The numbers settle me.
I look at Roman.
His face softens without losing anything.
He nods once.
We step back into the hall.
I try to speak.
My mouth has trouble choosing between facts and fear.
He looks like he will stand there and let me decide, as long as I want, but there is a new sound downstairs.
The oven clicks as metal shrinks in the cooling.
A gust lifts the eaves and lays them down again.
The quiet returns, and under it something like a held breath.
We stop at the top of the stairs.
I turn to him.
My voice feels like it belongs to a younger version of me for a beat and I hate that.
I clear it.
“I could not find the gun,” I say, a little sharp now that I am not whispering. “You should have told me. You cannot leave the drawer open. Anyone could think we forgot how to be careful.What if I had gone looking for a light and found air. What if I had needed it.”
“I am telling you now,” he says, and his mouth pulls in the faintest hint of a grim smile that does not quite belong to humor. “And you would not have needed it. Not with me awake.”
“You are not the only awake person here,” I say. “I am not a porcelain thing. I will not be wrapped in quilts and set on a shelf because it is convenient for your heart rate.”
“Good,” he says, and the word hits with heat. “Then listen. You stay with me tonight. No arguments.”
