Page 36 of Contracted to the Bikers

I tear into the compound, gravel spitting under the tires as I cut the engine and swing off. My abrupt arrival already has the clubhouse on high alert. I’m halfway to the door when it swings open, and Rook appears with Boone close behind. Sloane’s anxious face peers from behind him.

The second she sees me, she knows. I see it happen, her mother’s instinct hitting her like a freight train as she realizes what’s happened before her brain’s fully caught up. Her face goes slack with horror.

She stands motionless, as if moving might force her fears into reality. “Where is she?” she asks, ripping the band-aid off, cutting straight to the heart of the matter and asking the only question that matters.

I freeze, feeling the most helpless and useless I’ve ever felt. I don’t have an answer, don’t have any words of comfort or anything to say that could make the truth any less horrific.

My chest tightens, grip clenching around the plush dinosaur still in my hand. Sloane’s eyes land on the plushie, and she finally cracks, a slow wail slipping from her lips as her legs buckle. Boone catches her, holding her close as the words that break her heart fall from my mouth.

“They took her.”

Watching Sloane crumble is devastating. She howls like a wounded animal, reaching out for the plushie which I hand over numbly, she clutches it to her chest, holding it close, knuckles white as she struggles to catch her breath.

I want to hold her close, to promise I will do everything I can to get Jessy back, but the promise feels hollow. I couldn’t keep my promise to protect her, so what comfort would my words offer to Sloane now? Boone and Rook step in, offering what I cannot give, while I stand there hopelessly.

I’ve never felt like I failed harder than I do right now.

Chapter 15

Boone

Sloane breaks in my arms. It’s like something inside her finally gave way under too much pressure. I catch her before she can fall, pulling her against me, one arm wrapped tight around her back, the other coming up to cradle her head as she presses into my chest like she’s trying to anchor herself to something solid. Her shoulders shake, and her breath comes in short, sharp pulls that don’t quite make it all the way in.

“Sloane,” I murmur, low, steady, the way I used to calm rookies who hadn’t seen combat before. “Hey. I’ve got you.”

Her hands clutch at my shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. “They took her,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Those monsters took my baby—”

“I know.” The words come out rougher than I mean them to because I’m feeling what she’s feeling, not the same, it could never equate, but it’s close enough.

The thought of Jessy alone and scared, in someone else’s hands makes something ugly, something cold and violent that’s lain dormant for a long time, rise in my chest. I push it down. It’s not useful right now, but later, when we find the bastards, it will be.

“We’re getting her back,” I say firmly. “You hear me? We’re getting her back.”

She shakes her head once against my chest, like she doesn’t believe it or she can’t let herself believe it, only to have the last shred of hope ripped away.

I tighten my hold on her. “You trust me?” I ask quietly.

She doesn’t hesitate for long before answering. “Yes.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s enough.

“Then we’re getting her back,” I repeat.

Her breathing starts to steady as she regains her composure and control in a way that only Sloane can. She quickly pulls away, as if she caught herself slipping, and refuses to let it happen again. Her hands come up to wipe at her face, dragging away tears with the back of her wrist.

Just like that, she’s back. The sharp, focused, and sometimes a little bit terrifying woman that we need right now. Sloane, the lawyer, not the mom. “Inside,” she orders.

We don’t hesitate; there’s no need to discuss, we need to move. The clubhouse erupts into a frenzy of movement and chaos. The room fills with raised, angry voices overlapping, and the sounds of chairs scraping, boots hitting the floor hard enough to rattle the walls. The men are enraged and ready to fight, their questions overlapping, the answers few and far between.

“Who took her—”

“How the hell did this happen—”

“Lock the gates—”

Cruz looks defeated, Rook overwhelmed, frozen with concern for Sloane, the only time I’ve ever seen him fail to take charge. It’s pure, uncontrolled chaos. For a moment, I fear it’s going to stay that way, and we’ll never achieve anything like this, but then Sloane moves, gliding with purpose through the scramble of people. Halfway across the room, right in the center of the madness, she stops. But the expression on her face isn’t lost or scared; it’s determined, the face of a leader about to command their troops.

“Meeting room,” she says. She doesn’t need to shout, but her voice carries, cutting through the noise and uncertainty.

People shift, glancing over at Rook, our leader, who echoes Sloane’s command, pointing out who should join us and who should wait here and prepare the weapons. With a decision made, everyone follows without question.