But… They're not my family. I need to remember that. But God help me, holding them feels right in a way nothing has felt right in years.
"Come on," I say eventually, gently pulling back. "Let's sit down. You've both had a shock."
I guide them to the couch, and only then do I notice the smell. Something delicious coming from the kitchen. Garlic and butter and seafood.
Claire follows my gaze and tries to smile. "I made dinner. I hope that's okay. I used your shrimp and some of your pasta, and if you didn't want me to use them, I'll pay you back—"
"Claire." I stop her rambling. "You made dinner?"
"I wanted to do something. To thank you. To feel useful." She's crying again, silent tears tracking down her face. "It's probably cold and ruined and—"
"I'm sure it's perfect." And I mean it. This woman, terrified and shaking, being pursued by her abuser, still found the strength to cook a meal. To do something kind. To give something back.
"There's enough for you," she says. "If you're hungry. If you want it."
I'm not particularly hungry, but I nod anyway. Because I can see that she needs this. Needs to know that her gesture mattered, that she contributed something, that she's not just taking up space.
"I'd love some. Let me just make one quick call, and then we'll eat together."
She nods, and I step into the kitchen to reheat the food while I pull out my phone. Beast answers on the first ring.
"Sheriff."
"How's our guest?"
"Learning some valuable lessons about respecting women. Don't worry. He'll be alive and mostly functional when we're done. But he won't forget tonight anytime soon."
"Good. Make sure he understands that if he comes back, if he tries to contact her, if he even thinks about Blackwater Falls, the consequences will be worse."
"Consider it done. We'll drop him at the county line in a few hours. Let him find his own way back to whatever hole he crawled out of."
"Appreciate it, Beast."
"Anytime, Sheriff. That's what we do. We protect our own. And that woman and her kid? They're ours now. Anyone messes with them messes with the Riders."
I hang up feeling better than I have all day. The MC might have a rough reputation, but they're men of their word. And they understand justice in ways the legal system sometimes can't.
Claire has Jackson settled on the couch with a blanket, some dinosaur documentary playing on the TV. She's in the kitchen, plating the reheated pasta.
"You didn't have to do this," I say, watching her move through my kitchen like she belongs there.
"I wanted to." She sets a plate in front of me, her hands steadier now. "It's the least I could do after everything you've done for us."
The pasta looks incredible—shrimp and garlic and butter, simple but perfect. I take a bite, and it's the best thing I've tasted in years.
"Claire." I look up at her. "This is amazing."
She actually smiles. It's small and fragile, but it's real. "My mom taught me to cook. Before I… before everything."
Before Derek. Before the isolation and the abuse and the years of being told she was worthless.
"Well, she taught you well."
We eat in silence, the sound of the documentary drifting in from the living room. Jackson's voice occasionally chimes inwith facts about whatever dinosaur is on screen. Claire keeps glancing toward him, making sure he's okay, that he's processing everything as well as a four-year-old can.
"What happens now?" she finally asks.
"Now you stay here. Both of you. For as long as you need."
