Page 39 of Contracted to the Bikers

Confused, I wonder how to answer, but Cruz seems to understand. “Yeah, I found your dinosaur. That was really smart of you, kiddo. She’s waiting safely back home.”

Jessy smiles at Cruz and takes his hand too. He looks down at her, tears pricking in his eyes, and I think he might actually cry, a sight I never thought I’d see.

Rook glances at me, a shared look of concern crossing our faces. Jessy might seem alright now, but it’s clear that she’s not fully processed the situation yet, and that even though she’s pretending to be brave, she was scared. I want to go back and beat Briggs into a pulp. Right now, that feels like a better punishment than legal justice. Rook must be thinking the same thing, but he shakes his head slightly. We have to respect Sloane’s wishes. We promised to do this her way.

When we step out of the warehouse, she’s already there waiting. The second she sees Jessy, everything else disappears. Her face is awash with relief and love, more beautiful than ever. She runs toward us, and I barely have time to shift before she’s there, pulling Jessy out of our grasp and into her arms, holding her so tight it looks like she might break.

“You’re squeezing too tight, Mommy,” Jessy protests.

Sloane half chuckles, half sobs, easing up her grip only a fraction, but not letting go. She doesn’t cry at first. Just holds her baby close. I don’t even realize she’s crying until I see the teardrops streaking down her cheeks, quiet and controlled, not wanting to scare Jessy any further with her own fear. She cries for thirty seconds, maybe less, before stopping with that iron will of hers I so admire.

She pulls back, her face scrunched with concern, gripping Jessy by the shoulders as her gaze moves over Jessy’s arms, her face, checking for injuries. “You’re okay? They didn’t hurt you?” she asks, her voice steady again, even though she must dread the answer won’t be good.

Jessy shakes her head. “They were mean, though,” she says, revealing a little of the trauma she went through.

Sloane exhales, the sound small, relief mingled with wrath against the men who scared her child. “You never have to see them again. Mommy is going to make sure of that,” she promises.

Jessy nods. “I know.” Her faith in her mother is total and unwavering—mine is too. Sloane was right when she told Briggs he fucked with the wrong woman.

As I watch them, I realize that I cannot live without them. They are what matters most to me. Sloane and Jessy have found their way into a heart I believed was impenetrable. They care for me, warts and all. I’ve found the one thing I thought I was too broken to have—a family.

I glance up at the others. Rook and Cruz are watching them with the same expression. When their eyes meet mine, we don’t have to say anything to know we’re all thinking the same thing. That somehow, we’ve all fallen in love with the same woman, that we all want to be fathers to the same girl, yet it isn’t complicated or messy; it’s blissfully, perfectly simple and clear. We love them, and we’re not letting them go.

Chapter 16

Sloane

It’s past midnight when we finally get home from the police station. The clubhouse is silent, empty for the first time since I arrived. Everything feels slowed down and too sharp at the same time, like my body hasn’t decided whether to crash or keep running.

Jessy is asleep upstairs, the sway of the police car that drove us home finally lulled her to sleep, curled into my side until her breathing evened out, her small hand still twisted in the front of my shirt like she didn’t trust the world not to take her again if she let go. Boone carefully carried her upstairs, gentle as if he were holding a dormouse. She didn’t stir when he softly laid her on the bed and pulled the comforter up around her. We stood in silence, watching the rise and fall of her chest for a moment before Boone took my hand and guided me away.

Even now, I can still feel the ghost of her grip, and I resist the urge to go to her room and check on her, to make sure she’s really here, fearful she’ll disappear again if I take my eye off her for a second.

I stand just outside the main room in the clubhouse, staring at nothing in particular, the weight of the day settling into my bones in a way exhaustion never quite does. I just got a call from the detective who’s handling the case, and I still can’t believe it. The lights hum faintly overhead, only half of them on, casting a small circle of light in the otherwise dark room. A bottle clinks softly somewhere behind me. We’ve graduated from coffee onto harder stuff.

“You should sit,” Boone says, his voice low, close behind me. I didn’t hear him walking up.

I don’t argue, I don’t have the energy for it. He guides me carefully toward the couch, as if I might break if he moves too fast. His hand stays at my back, steady and grounding, until I sink into the worn leather couch; it creaks under my weight. The safe, solid warmth of it envelops me, reassuringly familiar.

Rook is pacing in tight, controlled lines near the table, his jaw locked so hard I can see the tension in his neck. Cruz leans against the bar, one hand braced on the surface, the other wrapped around a glass he hasn’t taken a sip from. All three of them look like they’re holding something back. I feel the same.

“So what did Alvarez want?” Rook asks.

“He’s going to get away with it,” I say, my voice flat and distant, the words feel like they belong to someone else. Saying it out loud after my phone call with Detective Alvarez makes it real.

Rook stops pacing. “What?”

“Briggs,” I clarify. “He’s being released.”

Silence drops hard into the room like a penny in a fountain. “That’s not possible,” Cruz says.

“It is.” I drag a hand over my face, the skin still too tight from dried tears. “He’s claiming he had no involvement,” I continue. “Says the men acted alone. Broke into his warehouse. He was only there because the alarm tripped.”

Cruz lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Rook’s eyes are on me, dark, focused, furious. “And the police bought that?”

“They don’t have enough evidence to contradict it,” I say. “There’s no direct evidence tying Briggs to the kidnapping. He was too smart for that, had his lackeys do the dirty work.”