Page 20 of Jax & Knox

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," I lie. "Just tired."

He doesn't push. Neither of them do.

They help me clean up, and then they leave.

But before they go, Jax turns back.

"We're not going anywhere, Ainsley," he says. "Just so you know."

I nod, not trusting my voice. And as I watch them walk away, I think, I want to believe you. I'm just terrified of what happens if I do.

FIVE

AINSLEY

I wake to the sound of a truck engine rumbling outside.

For a second, my body tenses, old instincts kicking in, telling me to run, to hide, to grab Owen and disappear. But then I remember where I am. The cottage. The club property. Where strong men stand guard and no one yells.

I ease out of bed carefully, my ribs still tender but better than yesterday. I can breathe deeper now without wincing. Progress.

Owen is still asleep in the temporary laundry basket, his little chest rising and falling in that perfect rhythm. I press a kiss to his forehead and pad barefoot to the window.

A massive black truck is parked crooked in the gravel, and climbing out of it is a man the size of a small building.

Tiny, Lucy’s husband. I’ve seen him before, looming in the background at the clubhouse, swallowing entire doorways, making every other patched member look almost reasonable by comparison. He’s even bigger up close. Broad as a refrigerator, tall enough that he has to duck under the porch overhang, arms like tree trunks and a face that somehow still manages to look friendly instead of terrifying.

He spots me through the glass and lights up like Christmas morning, already talking before he’s even fully out of the truck.

“Morning! Special delivery. One luxury baby throne, carved by yours truly because apparently the store-bought ones offended my delicate sense of craftsmanship. Also Lucy said if I didn’t stop hovering she’d put me on laundry duty, so here we are.”

I open the door. He fills the entire frame.

“Morning,” I manage, stepping back.

He doesn’t wait for permission. Just moves past me into the cottage, boots heavy on the hardwood, still talking the entire way down the hall like silence is personally offensive to him.

“Pale blue. Excellent choice. Very ‘I have my life together and also my child will not grow up to be chaotic.’ We’re putting this against the far wall. Window’s a trap. Drafts, sunlight, the occasional judgmental bird. All enemies of quality infant sleep. Trust me, I’ve done the research. Mostly by listening to Lucy complain.”

I nod, throat tight, already realizing I’m not going to get a word in edgewise.

He sets the crib pieces down with surprising care for a man who looks like he could bench-press the entire cottage, then pulls a screwdriver from his pocket and starts assembling it with quick, efficient movements, narrating like he’s hosting a very intense home-improvement show.

“Don’t look so stressed. I’ve built enough of these to qualify as a professional. This wood could survive a toddler tantrum, a small earthquake, and possibly a light apocalypse. Kid’s going to be spoiled. I’m okay with that. Someone in this family has to be the fun one, and between me and the rest of these emotionally constipated men, I’m winning by default.”

Within fifteen minutes the crib is fully assembled, sturdy and beautiful. He stands back, gives it a solid shake that somehow doesn’t rattle the walls, and keeps going.

“Listen to that. Not a single squeak. If this thing ever fails, you have full permission to mock me publicly. Until then, sleep easy knowing your child is resting in superior craftsmanship. Tell him I expect a verbal thank-you around age three. I’ll be patient. Mostly.”

He finally glances at me, mouth tipping into a grin that makes him look slightly less like a mountain that learned how to walk.

“You need anything, diapers, snacks, someone to scare off bad decisions, call Lucy. She’s the brains. I’m just the oversized delivery guy with opinions and excellent woodworking skills. And I’ve got a lot of opinions.”

Then he’s already heading for the door, still talking over his shoulder.

“Seriously. Call. Stubbornness is overrated and usually ends with someone crying. Prefer it not be you.”