Page 84 of Monk

Kansas’ mouth twitched, almost a smile. “That’s what brothers do.”

I nodded and walked out, the weight of the conversation settling across my shoulders like wet concrete. I had a run to make. A daughter to protect. A woman to claim. A mess named Ruby to shut down before it got anywhere near Lina and Tatum. And every damn second felt like sand running through my fists.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Lina

The sound hit me first.

That deep, rumbling growl of a motorcycle engine cut through the quiet Oklahoma morning like a blade, low and unmistakable. I was standing on the front porch of the farmhouse with one hand curled around the railing and the other braced at my hip, and the second I heard it, every muscle in my body went tight. I knew that sound. I would have known it half asleep, half drunk, halfway across the county. There were some things a woman never forgot, no matter how hard she tried.

John.

My heart did something stupid—something soft and traitorous and completely unwelcome—as the sound grew louder, closer, until the black-and-chrome beast of his bike came rolling down the gravel driveway in a wash of sunlight and dust. The morning sun hit the metal and made it flash. The gravel crackled beneath his tires. And then there he was, riding toward my house like he belonged on that stretch of land, like he’d always belonged there.

John “Monk” Smith. Vice President of the Diamondback MC. Father of my daughter. The man who had torn my life clean in half seven years ago and somehow, against every law of God and reason, had started stitching pieces of it back together in the span of a few impossible weeks. He rode with the kind ofconfidence that only came from years on the road—body loose, shoulders easy, hands steady on the bars, his cut lifting faintly in the breeze. He looked dangerous. Familiar. Entirely too good.

I hated how good he looked. Hated the way my stomach flipped anyway. Hated that even now, after everything, some part of my body still recognized him before my pride had a chance to object.

“Mom! Mom, he’s here!” Tatum’s voice rang out behind me—high, bright, breathless with excitement—and before I could even turn around, she came flying through the screen door and barreled past me, her sneakers slapping against the porch boards hard enough to rattle them.

“Tatum, wait?—”

But she didn’t wait. She never did. She tore down the porch steps and across the yard in a blur of denim, pink sneakers, and bouncing ponytail, her whole face lit up with a kind of pure, unfiltered joy that made something twist hard in my chest. It had only been a few days, and already she was running to him like he’d always been part of her world.

John coasted to a stop in front of the house in a cloud of pale dust and revved the engine once. Then twice.

The sound was loud, obnoxious, and entirely deliberate. I rolled my eyes so hard it was a wonder I didn’t strain something.

Show-off.

But when I looked at him, I caught the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth and knew exactly what he was doing. He was showing off. Not for me this time. Forher. For Tatum. And the ridiculous part was that it was working. She looked at him like he’d hung the damn moon.

My chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.

Tatum skidded to a stop a few feet from the bike, hands clasped under her chin, practically vibrating with excitement. “John! You came!”

“Course I came, kiddo,” John said, and there was something rough and warm in his voice that made me glance at him harder. “Told you I would, didn’t I?”

Tatum nodded eagerly, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

John cut the engine, and the silence that followed felt almost deafening after all that thunder and noise. He swung his leg over the bike with practiced ease, boots crunching against the gravel, then turned toward the back of the motorcycle. I watched, suddenly holding my breath, as he reached for a small pink box tied securely to the luggage rack with black bungee cords.

Pink. My heart gave a stupid little squeeze. John walked over to Tatum, dropped down to one knee so he was eye level with her, and held the box out in both hands like he understood instinctively that moments mattered with children. “Got something for you,” he said.

Tatum’s eyes went wide as saucers. She looked at the box, then at John, then back at the box again like she couldn’t quite believe something that pretty could possibly be for her. “For me?” she whispered.

“Yeah, baby girl,” John said softly. “For you.”

Tatum reached out slowly, almost reverently, and took the box from his hands. She opened it with fumbling, careful fingers, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration. Then she gasped so sharply even my father laughed from behind the screen door. “A helmet!”

She pulled it free and held it up like it was treasure. It was bright, vibrant pink with tiny white stars scattered across the shell, glossy enough to catch the sunlight. It was adorable. Practical. Thoughtful. And so perfectlyherthat it stole the breath out of me for a second.

“Do you like it?” John asked, watching her face with an intensity that was almost painful to witness.

Tatum nodded so hard I thought she might actually topple over. “I love it!” she said, breathless. “I love it so much!”

Before I could say a word, she jammed the helmet onto her head, a little crooked, the strap dangling uselessly under her chin.