Page 39 of Brick’s Anchor

"Ten more minutes," I tell them both. "You can make it ten more minutes."

Maya responds by throwing her pacifier at the back of my head with surprising accuracy for a one-year-old.

Rosie laughs. "She's definitely mine."

"That's assault. I'm being assaulted by my own child."

"You've survived worse."

Fair point. I've survived firefights and bar brawls and that time Canvas's birthday party got out of hand and we ended up explaining to the Millhaven police why there was a shopping cart on the clubhouse roof. I can survive ten more minutes of my daughter's displeasure.

We pull into Rosie's parents' neighborhood exactly three years and two months after I pulled her out of that warehouse. Three years and two months since the night that changed both our lives completely.

The house is a modest two-story with a well-maintained lawn and flowers in the beds—Rosie's mother's touch. There are already cars in the driveway. Her parents. Her sister. The whole family gathered for Sunday dinner like they do every week, and we join whenever we can make the drive.

Which isn't often enough, according to Rosie's mother. But we're trying.

Maya stops crying the moment the car stops moving. Just stops. Like she was testing whether we'd actually get here or give up halfway.

"Manipulative," I say, turning around to look at her in the rearview mirror. "You played us."

She grins. Shows me all six of her teeth. Looks incredibly pleased with herself.

"She's a Hayes," Rosie says, unbuckling her seatbelt. "Of course she's manipulative."

"She's also a Lane. Your whole family is stubborn as hell."

"We prefer 'determined.'"

"Same thing."

We get out of the car. I grab Maya from her car seat, and she immediately tries to grab my beard, which has become her favorite game in the last month. I let her. Learned early that fighting a determined one-year-old is a losing battle.

The front door opens before we reach it. Rosie's mother, Susan, appears, already reaching for Maya. "There's my grandbaby! Oh, look at you! You got so big!"

"It's been two weeks, Mom," Rosie says, but she's smiling. "She couldn't have grown that much."

"She absolutely did. Didn't you, sweetie?" Susan takes Maya from my arms, cooing at her. Maya, the traitor, goes willingly and immediately stops trying to pull beards. "Come in, come in. David's got the grill going. Jenna's in the kitchen."

We follow her inside. The house smells like grilling meat and something sweet baking. Family photos line the hallway, some old ones of Rosie and her sister growing up, newer ones that include me and Maya. Evidence of acceptance. Of belonging.

It wasn't always like this.

That first visit, three months after the warehouse, was tense. Rosie's father David answered the door, saw me… Six-five, tattooed, wearing my Iron Phoenix cut, and his jaw literally clenched. Her mother looked between us with barely concealed worry. Her sister Jenna kept asking pointed questions about how we met, how old I was, and whether I understood that Rosie had been through trauma.

They were suspicious. More than suspicious. They were convinced I was another mistake. Another bad decision in a pattern of bad decisions. Another man who would hurt their daughter and sister.

And I couldn't blame them. I was forty-two to Rosie's twenty-four. I was covered in tattoos and everything parents fear when they imagine who their daughter might bring home. I was a biker. An enforcer. A man whose job literally involved breaking things.

I wasn't what anyone would choose for someone they loved.

But Rosie chose me anyway. Kept choosing me. Every day for three months before she was ready to introduce me to her family. Every day since.

"Marcus," David calls from the back patio, using my real name instead of my road name. He's one of four people outside the club who do that: him, Rosie, Susan, and Jenna. It's their way of seeing me as human instead of just scary biker. "Good to see you. How's the club?"

"Busy. The good kind of busy." I tell him, stepping out onto the patio. He's at the grill with burgers and hot dogs.

"Good." He looks at me steadily. "I'm glad everything is okay. For Rosie's sake."