Page 47 of My Reckless Biker

We stay like that for a while, holding each other as the sun sets outside and orange light fills the room.

Eventually we get into bed properly, both exhausted from the day. We don't have sex. Just lie together, his arm around me, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat steady and strong.

"Your father's coming," he says into the darkness. "Whatever he's planning, it's going to be soon. And it's going to be bad."

"I know."

"And I can't protect you from everything. That scares me."

"You don't have to protect me from everything. Just stay here with me and we'll handle it together."

"I can do that."

Epilogue — Diesel

Three Years Later

The mattress barely fits through the doorframe and Tate's swearing under his breath about whoever designed houses this fucking small while Holt adjusts his grip and tries not to laugh.

I'm on the other end guiding it through at an angle that should work if Tate would just lift his side another three inches.

"Your left," I say.

"It is left."

"Your other left."

"Fuck you, Diesel."

The mattress clears the frame and we haul it into what's going to be the master bedroom. Hardwood floors that still need finishing, windows that look out over the backyard, more space than the first place Sienna and I got together ever had.

This is the upgrade.

The house we're choosing because we can, not because we need to.

Sienna's voice carries from downstairs, directing Cain on where the kitchen boxes go, and I can hear the specific patience in her tone that means Cain's trying to optimize the box placement and she's letting him think he's helping while she rearranges it after.

"That it?" Holt asks, wiping his forehead.

"Yeah. Appreciate it."

"No problem. Katherine's got a thing at three so I need to head out anyway." He heads for the stairs, stops. "Place looks good, brother. Real good."

"Thanks."

Tate claps my shoulder on his way past. "You need anything else, call. Otherwise I'm getting the fuck out of here before Sienna tries to make me organize something."

I follow them down and find Sienna in the kitchen surrounded by boxes labeled in her precise handwriting: PLATES, MUGS, UTENSILS.

She's wearing old jeans and one of my shirts tied at her waist because it's too big otherwise, hair pulled back, and there's dust on her cheek from hauling boxes.

She looks up when the brothers come down.

"Thanks for the help," she says.

"Anytime," Holt says, already moving toward the door.

Tate just waves and they're gone, bikes starting outside, gravel crunching under tires as they pull away.