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Torch looks down at the six-month-old baby perched on his knee.

“Which one?”

I stare at him.

“The one currently trying to swallow your president patch.”

“Vice president, sweetheart.”

“She's eating it, Torch. I doubt she cares about club hierarchy.”

He grins and gently frees the leather from our daughter's gummy mouth.

Across the living room, her twin sister lets out an indignant squeal from her play mat.

“See?” I say. “Even your other daughter thinks you're ridiculous.”

“Pretty sure she's agreeing with me.”

“Of course you are.”

He lifts the baby against his chest and kisses her little head.

My heart does that ridiculous squeezing thing it still does whenever I see him with our girls.

Two years ago, I climbed through his cabin window looking for answers.

Now I live here.

Well, not in exactly the same cabin. That one needed rebuilding after the gas incident, and Torch took the opportunity to make it bigger.

Apparently, two bedrooms weren't enough once he started planning for a family.

He was right.

Don't tell him I said that.

We got married two weeks after he rescued me. Grim stood beside him, Striker gave an entirely inappropriate speech, and Vex spent most of the reception pretending he wasn't enjoying himself.

The girls have already been thoroughly spoiled by every member of the Damned Sinners.

Grim claims he's teaching them discipline.

Striker brings toys that make noise.

Vex buys them things their father specifically told him not to.

It's a wonderful arrangement.

For everyone except us.

“Your turn,” Torch says, nodding toward the second baby.

I scoop her up, and she immediately grabs a fistful of my hair.

“Ow. That's Mommy's, sweetheart.”

Torch laughs.