Page 41 of Contracted to the Bikers

Boone’s hand slides from my back to my shoulder, steady pressure grounding me. “She’s safe,” he says, as always knowing exactly what’s going through my mind.

“I know.” But the image won’t leave my head. Jessy, alone and afraid, without even her plushie for comfort, waiting for me. My chest tightens. “She shouldn’t have been in danger in the first place,” I say.

“No,” Rook agrees. His voice is quieter now. “She shouldn’t have.”

I look up at him closely; the anger is still there, but underneath it, there’s fear. He’s feeling the same thing I felt. The same thing I’m still feeling.

Cruz stops pacing and leans against the table again. “What’s our next move?” he asks—a man of action, not one to give up that easily.

His words light the fire within me. I straighten slowly. This part I understand. This part I can control. “We build the case,” I say. “We don’t let that bastard get away with this.”

Rook’s eyes sharpen. “How?”

“The way I always do.” I push to my feet, energy coming back in sharp, focused bursts now that I have something to aim it at. “Briggs didn’t just start this,” I continue. “This operation has structure, a history. He can’t hide the financial trails, not completely. I’ve already got enough to convince us, now I just need enough to convince the cops.” I move to the table, grabbing a legal pad, already writing. “He’s careful,” I say. “But no one is perfect. There will be mistakes, patterns, overlaps.”

Cruz watches me, something like a grin pulling at his mouth. “There she is.”

I ignore him. “We trace every company,” I continue. “Every transaction. Every property.”

Boone steps closer. “What do you need?”

“Time,” I say. “Access. No one interrupts me unless it’s urgent.”

Rook nods once. “You’ve got it.”

I meet his gaze. “This ends with him in prison.”

Not maybe. Not hopefully. Definitely. As much as we might want Briggs dead, he deserves to rot in jail. His victims deserve justice.

Rook holds my eyes. “Good,” he says, understanding without me needing to explain why this is so important that we do things right.

Taking down Briggs isn’t just about justice anymore. It’s about making sure he can never touch us again. I turn back to the table, flipping open my laptop, the screen lighting up in the dim room. The familiar glow steadies me and centers me. This is where I fight best. Not with weapons, or force, but with facts, with proof, with precision. I pull up the files and start building the case, brick by brick, making sure that this time, the foundations won’t crumble under scrutiny. I’m not going to move until I can bury him completely. I won’t stop until I do.

Briggs may have won the battle, but I will win the war.

Chapter 17

Sloane

I don’t remember the last time I slept properly. A real sleep, not just passing out from exhaustion, closing my eyes one minute and waking up feeling unrested, as if no time has passed. The kind of sleep where your body lets go, which mine can’t anymore, not since the warehouse, not since Jessy was taken.

I sit at my desk, staring at numbers that blur together, my eyes burning, my shoulders tight from hours—days—of not moving properly. The faint glow of the screen feels too bright in the dim room, like it’s pressing against my skull.

I rub my face hard. “Focus,” I hiss to the silent room.

I just need to find one more thread. One more connection. My frayed nerves are stretched tight, ready to snap. Downstairs, I hear children laughing, light, carefree. The sound pulls at something in my chest, and I’m overwhelmed with the need to see her. I close my laptop slowly. It’s just for a second, I’ll come right back.

A few of the club members have children, and to try and make life as normal as possible for Jessy, they’ve brought them to the clubhouse. The yard is full, alive with the simple joy of children playing. A handful of kids run across the grass, playing tag, their voices carrying in bright bursts of laughter. Two of the moms sit nearby, talking quietly while keeping half an eye on the chaos. Jessy is in the middle of it. Nothing’s changed there. To most, she seems fine, but a mother knows. The change is different, subtle. If you didn’t know her, you might miss it. She laughs and plays, but she’s also constantly checking, on edge, clinging to her plushie at all times.

The therapist said it’s normal, the regression, the nightmares, the clinginess, all of it. “She’ll get better,” she said. “Kids are remarkably durable.”

I nodded and thanked her, of course I did, because that’s what you do. You nod. You agree. You listen to the experts and tell yourself it’s temporary. But at night, when Jessy wakes up crying, clutching me so tight it hurts, it doesn’t feel temporary. It doesn’t feel like something she’s going to move on from. It feels like a scar that won’t heal. I step further into the yard, forcing a smile when she looks at me.

“Mommy!”

I crouch slightly as she runs over, throwing herself into my arms. “I’m right here,” I say.

Her skin is warm, her smile genuine. I can almost believe that things will return to normal. God, I need normal.