Page 44 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
“Your pantry has a false brick,” I say, still a little dazed, legs swinging.
“Your memory has incredible aim,” Cruz says without turning. “No questions, Miss Cinnamon Whisper.”
“Did you just call me ‘Miss Cinnamon Whisper?’” I ask.
“I did,” he answers. “And I stand by it.”
Deacon snorts softly, then hands me a cutting board and a knife, handle first, like a gentleman loaning a pen.
“Can you slice the scallions on a bias,” he asks. “Thin. We want the curl when they hit the heat.”
“Please respect my skills,” I say, hopping off the counter. My knees are a little wobbly so Roman’s hand appears at my waist without making a thing of it. I steady under his palm and set to work.
Roman heats oil in the bottom of the pot until it shimmers.
He adds garlic, then ginger, and the smell of it punches bliss into the air.
Deacon cracks eggs into a small bowl and sets a timer with the precision of a man defusing a bomb.
Cruz hums an old love song under his breath and measures soy with an eye that never misses.
The broth deepens.
The steam kisses my face.
I taste with a spoon and adjust the salt by a whisper because I can.
“Chili oil,” Deacon suggests, holding up a jar.
“Always,” I answer. “Just enough for heat, not enough to make Roman preach.”
Roman pretends not to hear that.
He is at the espresso machine, eyes narrowed like a man facing a rival.
He pulls two quick shots, sets one in front of me, and slides the other to Deacon, whose black-hearted cold brew sits on the counter like a challenge.
“To balance,” Roman says dryly.
“To blasphemy,” Deacon replies and drinks both. It makes Roman’s mouth twitch, which is the Jackals’ version of a laugh.
Cruz tastes the broth and closes his eyes. “This is the potion we needed,” he says.
“Potion implies witches,” I say. “We are clearly saints.”
“We are clearly neither,” Roman says, pouring noodles into the roll of a boil.
The eggs go in and out at six and a half minutes.
Deacon cools them in water with ice he counted.
Cruz lays out bowls and sets chopsticks across them with the kind of care you give to sacraments.
I scatter scallions that curl on cue. Roman ladles broth like a man pouring out mercy.
He splits the eggs with the back of a spoon and reveals yolk that glows like a small sun.
We eat standing around the island, slurping respectably, happy in that quiet way that only happens when your body has been thoroughly considered and then fed.
