Page 92 of Ruthless Possession
Matthew comes in through the back door, the cool morning air following him. He's been outside since dawn, running the perimeter check that has become as much a part of his routine as brushing his teeth. He presses a kiss to my temple and reaches past me for a coffee mug.
"All clear," he says quietly.
I nod. I know he'll say the same thing tomorrow and the day after that. The perimeter check is less about actual danger now and more about the ritual of it, the way his body needs to confirm, every single morning, that the world outside our fence is still holding.
"Drop-off at nine," I tell him. "Pickup at two. Therapy at four."
"Got it." He takes his coffee black, the way he takes everything, straight, no embellishment, no performance. "You're sure you don't want me to handle the therapy run today?"
"I've got it." I set my mug in the sink and move to Charlie, who's pushing her empty bowl away with the satisfied expression of someone who's finished a very important task. "Come on, turkey artist. Let's get your teeth brushed."
She slides off the stool and takes my hand. Her small fingers wrap around mine with a grip that's looser than it was a month ago, not the desperate clutch of a child who's afraid of being left behind, but the easy, trusting hold of a child who knows she'll be right where she belongs when she turns around.
In the bathroom, I watch her stand on her step stool and attack her teeth with a purple toothbrush. She's gotten taller in the last month. Or maybe I'm just noticing it now because I'm actually watching her grow instead of watching for threats over her shoulder.
"Morgan?" She spits into the sink. "Is Mr. Carter coming over tonight?"
"Not tonight, sweetheart. He's working at the clubhouse."
She nods, seemingly satisfied with this answer. Carter has become a fixture in our lives in a way I didn't expect. He stops by most evenings after his shift at the garage, sometimes with food, sometimes just to sit on our porch and drink a beer with Trenton and Matthew while Charlie shows him her latest art project through the window. He's built her a birdhouse, and taught her how to throw a proper punch, which I pretended to be horrified about but secretly found endearing. He calls her "little warrior" and she calls him "Mr. Carter".
"He said he'd teach me how to ride a bike," Charlie says, wiping her mouth on the hand towel.
"Did he?"
"Yep. When it's warmer. He said spring."
I smile and gather her hair into a ponytail. "Spring sounds perfect."
By eight thirty, we're packed and ready. Charlie's backpack contains her lunch, her water bottle, and Princess Sparklehoof, who attends preschool every Tuesday whether the school's policy on stuffed animals allows it or not. I've learned to pick my battles.
Trenton and Matthew leave first for the clubhouse. They've been diving into the MC's operations with the kind of focus they used to reserve for missions overseas. Greyson has them running security details, like route planning, the kind of work that uses the specific skill set they spent six years honing. I can see it settling into them, this new purpose. They come home tired but satisfied, with stories about runs and recruits and the particular chaos of a Devil Soul chapter meeting.
I stand in the driveway and watch their trucks pull away, then help Charlie into the back seat of the SUV. The car seat was a battle we fought and lost since she's technically old enough for a booster, but neither Trenton nor Matthew was willing to compromise on this one. Charlie doesn't seem to mind. She buckles herself in with the practiced efficiency of a child who's been told a hundred times that seat belts are nonnegotiable.
"Ready?" I ask, adjusting the rearview mirror.
"Ready." She's already pulling Princess Sparklehoof out of her backpack, positioning the stuffed unicorn on her lap for the drive.
The preschool is fifteen minutes away, tucked into a quiet neighborhood near the elementary school. I pull into the drop-off line and watch the other parents: moms in yoga pants, dads in work shirts, a grandmother who drives a station wagon and waves at everyone like she's running for mayor. Normal people living normal lives. A month ago, watching them would have made me feel like an impostor. Now it just makes me feel like I'm getting there.
"Have a good day, sweetheart." I unbuckle her and she hops down, backpack slung over one shoulder, unicorn clutched to her chest.
"Bye, Morgan!" She's already scanning the playground for her friend Lily, the little girl with red pigtails who shares Charlie's obsession with purple Tuesdays.
I watch her run to the gate, where Miss Donna waits with her clipboard and a warm smile. Charlie says something that makes Miss Donna laugh, and then she's through the gate and onto the playground, and for a moment I let myself just stand there and watch her be a kid.
No looking over her shoulder. No scanning the tree line. No calculating escape routes.
Just a little girl on a playground on a Tuesday morning.
I get back in the car and sit for a moment before starting the engine. My phone buzzes with a text from Matthew: All good?
All good, I type back. She's in. Heading to the store.
Three dots appear, then: Call if you need anything. Love you.
Love you too.
