Page 25 of Contracted to the Bikers

He shrugs. “What more could I want? We have a place that’s ours. People we trust. A family.”

“What about a wife, or an old lady, or kids?” I probe.

His gaze moves to Jessy now. “That would be nice.” I shouldn’t be surprised when he doesn’t feel the need to elaborate beyond that, much to my frustration.

I study him. “And sharing?” I ask carefully. I realize that if I want to get a straight answer from him, I’m going to have to be more direct with my approach. Boone would be every defense attorney’s dream, a witness who doesn’t elaborate or answer more than exactly what is asked of them.

His gaze shifts to me. “You mean you.”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “We don’t just want to share women for the night. We share everything,” he continues. “If it works.”

“If it works,” I repeat.

He nods. “No point fighting over something that’s better shared.”

Something tightens in my chest. “That’s… very pragmatic.”

“It’s real,” he says simply. “Might be unconventional, but it works for us, not least because we all seem to fall for the same woman.”

I want to ask if that means they all want me. Not just sexually, but an actual relationship. I want to ask who they’ve fallen for in the past and why it didn’t work. I want to ask how it could work with us, especially with a child involved, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. Somehow, asking those questions would make this real, and I need time to think about what I want and what’s right for my daughter.

“Rook didn’t tell me that.”

Boone’s mouth twitches slightly. “Rook doesn’t explain much.”

No, he doesn’t, which brings me back to the other problem. “He’s keeping things from me,” I say.

Boone’s expression doesn’t change, but he doesn’t deny it.

“That’s not acceptable,” I continue. “If I’m part of this, I need access to the same information.”

“He’s trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need that kind of protection.”

Boone looks at me then, his soulful eyes piercing through my armor. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You do.”

I don’t respond because I don’t like that answer, and I don’t like that part of me that knows he might be right. Maybe I’m not strong enough to deal with this situation alone. But a part of me won’t let myself be vulnerable, won’t let them protect me, because the last time I asked a man for protection, he ran away. Instead of sticking by my side while I prosecuted the biggest case of my career, my husband left. He said I was a fool to go up against Valentin Escar. He tried to take Jessy, but I won custody. After that, I thought he’d stick around for her sake, but he turned tail and ran. Now I can’t help but wonder if things would be different if he’d stayed or if I’d listened to his advice and dropped the case. All of these thoughts bring up emotions I’m not ready to deal with, so I default to old habits, putting up an emotional wall around myself again.

“Thanks for the burrito,” I say abruptly, getting up. “Dinners in an hour, Jessy,” I call to my daughter before fleeing back inside, heading for the sanctuary of my room.

Back in my room, I sit down at my desk again, pulling up the files I was working on earlier. I need to focus, regain some control. That’s what will get me out of this situation and keep Jessy and me safe. I don’t need anyone else to help protect us beyond what living here provides.

The details of the case fill the screen, and I slip back into my familiar routine, studying corporate filings and financial transfers. Studying the numbers is simple, solid, and uncomplicated until it isn’t.

My eyes catch on a structure buried three layers deep in the document, and I spot a familiar pattern. Too familiar. I lean forward slightly.

“No,” I murmur.

But there it is, the same arrangement. Shell companies are stacked in a specific sequence. Money moving in tight loops before disappearing into clean accounts with different names. This has the same bones—my pulse quickens. I’ve seen this before. I built a case around this exact structure, the case against Valentin Escar.

I start pulling the thread, quietly and methodically, making no assumptions, just following the data where it leads. The deeper I go, the clearer it becomes. The similarity isn’t a coincidence, it’s a replication or perhaps a continuation.

I build the file as I go, organizing everything into a new folder, linking documents, and mapping ownership chains. Hours pass without me noticing. Until, finally, like a knot finally becoming untangled, a name appears: Harlan Briggs.

My stomach drops as I stare at the screen. No. That’s not possible. Harlan Briggs is a respected local developer. A pillar of the community, he can’t possibly be dirty. Except that the ownership chain leads straight to him, or close enough, there is irrefutable evidence that ties him to Escar.