Page 90 of Jax & Knox

It looks like a home .

My chest tightens, and for a moment, I can't breathe. This is the kind of place I used to dream about as a kid, the kind of place where families gathered for Sunday dinners and kids played in the yard and everyone was safe and loved.

It's everything I never had.

And now I'm supposed to walk in there and pretend I belong.

"They're already here," Knox mutters, eyeing the row of motorcycles parked in the driveway.

"Who?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Revolver and Blade," Jax says. "Mom's sisters are married to them. They're good guys. You'll like them."

I nod, even though my stomach is doing somersaults.

Jax gets out first, then Knox. Knox opens my door and helps me out, his hand steady and warm against mine. Jax unbuckles Owen from his car seat, and Owen immediately reaches for Knox, his little arms outstretched.

Knox takes him without hesitation, settling him on his hip like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Ready?" Jax asks, taking my hand.

"No," I admit.

He grins. "Too bad."

Before I can protest, the front door swings open, and a woman steps out onto the porch.

My breath catches.

It's her.

The woman from that first night at the clubhouse. The nurse. She's stunning, plus-size, with curves that would make any woman jealous, and a face that radiates warmth and kindness. Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose bun, and she's wearing jeans and a soft blue sweater that brings out her eyes.

"Jax! Knox!" she calls, her voice bright and full of joy.

"Hey, Mom," Jax says, grinning.

She hurries down the porch steps, and I watch as she pulls Jax into a tight hug, then does the same to Knox, careful not to squish Owen in the process.

My world stops.

Mom.

She's their mom.

The nurse who healed my wounds. The woman who examined my broken ribs and bruised body with such gentleness. The one who showed me kindness when I had nothing left. She's Jax and Knox's mother.

Then her eyes land on me, and recognition flickers across her face.

"Ainsley?" she says softly, like she's placing a memory. Then her expression shifts, understanding dawning. "Oh, sweetheart. You remember me."

I nod, unable to speak. My throat feels tight, and my hands are shaking again.

"From that first night," she says, stepping closer. "You were so scared. So hurt."

"You were kind," I whisper. "You didn't have to be, but you were. You checked my ribs. You were so gentle."

She smiles, and it's the same warm, maternal smile I remember from that terrifying night. "Of course I was. When my boys bring home someone they care about, I'm going to meet her. And when I saw you that night, so frightened, so protective of your baby, your body covered in bruises, I knew."