Page 10 of Contracted to the Bikers

I nod, standing. “Do you need to go home for your stuff?”

She shakes her head, a small, firm movement. “I came prepared.”

Of course she did. “Alright then, bring the kid in.”

She pauses at the door. “Rook?”

“Yeah.”

“If this arrangement becomes… complicated…”

“It will,” I assure her, an amused gleam in my eye as I admire the sight of her walking away.

Her mouth tightens. “I expect honesty. I’ll draw up a contract so we both know where we stand.”

I nod my agreement, leaning against the table. I’m not making any more promises today. Sloane sighs and turns, perhaps realizing that’s all she’s getting from me today, and walks outside to get her daughter.

Cruz chuckles the second the door closes. “You just married a prosecutor.”

I throw a peanut from the bowl on the table at his head. “Not married.”

Boone grins. “Close enough.”

I glance toward the window where I can see Sloane lifting a small girl out of the backseat. The kid wraps her arms around her mother’s neck, latching on like a baby monkey. Something unexpected shifts in my chest. Protecting a lawyer is one thing, but protecting a kid? That changes things.

Cruz leans back in his chair, throwing one of the nuts up in the air and catching it in his open mouth. “You realize you just started a war with a cartel,” he says casually, a hint of glee in his voice.

“Probably.”

Boone shrugs. “Reckon she’s worth it?”

I watch Sloane walking toward the clubhouse with her daughter in her arms. Strong, beautiful, and a danger magnet.

“Yeah,” I say. “I think Sloane Mercer might be worth it and then some.”

Chapter 4

Sloane

Jessy clings to me as I walk back toward the clubhouse, lifting her head from my shoulder, still half asleep, hair tangled across her face. “Mommy?” she says, bleary and confused.

“We’re here, sweetheart. We’re going to go inside and meet some of your grandpa’s friends.”

She mumbles something I don’t catch. As we walk inside the Iron Vale clubhouse, her eyes blink open slowly, adjusting to the dim light.

The three men stand near the long table we just left. Jessy studies them carefully. Children have an instinct for reading people that most adults lose somewhere along the way, so I watch her reaction closely. If my baby is scared, we’re turning right back around.

“Are these the bikers?” she whispers, holding her hand up against my cheek to cover her mouth.

I suppress a smile. “Yes.”

Rook pushes away from the table and walks toward us. Up close again, he’s… distracting, which is deeply inconvenient. He’s easily six foot three, broad shoulders filling out a worn black T-shirt like the fabric might surrender and fall off his muscular frame at any moment. Dark hair pushed back from his face, short beard outlining a jaw that looks like he stepped out of a magazine. He has sharp, observant gray eyes that are currently studying me with a faint hint of amusement.

I absolutely refuse to react to him, meeting his gaze with my best poker face.

“This is your kid?” he asks.

“Yes.”