Page 121 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
On the third monitor I pull the photo Deacon dug out of an old archive.
A celebration at the lodge, two years ago.
Men at the table, laughter freezing in motion, a blur of faces.
At the edge sits Nico, arm slung along a chair he did not pay for, smiling like a man who never breaks a mirror.
He is not a Jackal.
He never was.
He is worse.
He is family to her.
I do not look away.
I let the fact sit until it stops flinching.
He uses her name to open doors.
He routes her money to his shell.
He files complaints and posts bounties and watches her waste hours proving she is clean.
He calls her in the morning and shames her for working while he siphons her pay at night.
I am not surprised.
I’m not even angry in the way that moves men to break chairs.
I’m angry in the way that builds cases.
My jaw tightens. My hands stay flat on the desk.
Above me, floorboards creak.
Footsteps pause.
She does not follow.
Good.
She should sleep tonight.
She should wake to coffee and the sound of her sons. She should not come down here and see what this looks like on paper.
I open the old ledger.
Not because I need paper, but because we always record what requires the old ways.
Betrayals have weight.
You give them a page.
I write his name.
I write the line items.
