Tiny (Iron Reapers MC: Bloodlines #5)

Chapter 1

ONE

LUCY PARKER

I hear the front door open and close, and I glance up from my textbook as Dad sets his briefcase beside the small table near the door.

He shrugs out of his suit jacket, hangs it neatly on the coat rack, then loosens his tie while he looks around the living room. His eyes stop on me at the sofa table.

“Lucy, why aren’t you helping your mother with dinner?”

I look down at the textbook and notes spread in front of me. I should’ve put everything away before he got home. “Sorry, Dad. I was studying for a test I have tomorrow.”

His mouth tightens as he walks toward me, his dress shoes clicking against the hardwood. “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time going to school.”

Here we go.

I lower my eyes to my notes because he likes it better when I don’t look directly at him during these conversations.

“You’ll be married soon enough,” he says, stopping at the edge of the table. “Then all of this will have been a waste. A wife’s place is taking care of her husband and children, not chasing a degree she’ll never use.”

My fingers tighten around my pen. He talks about my future as if it's already been decided.

I'll get married, have children, and spend the rest of my life taking care of everyone else.

Never mind that I spent two years taking dual enrollment classes so I could graduate high school with my associate's degree already finished.

Never mind that I'm one semester away from becoming a registered nurse.

None of that matters to him. He only tolerates school because the scholarship pays for it and I still live at home.

Arguing won’t change his mind. It never does. It only makes him angry, then he reminds me how much he provides and how lucky I am to have a father who cares what happens to me.

“It would’ve seemed ungrateful to turn down the scholarship,” I say quietly. “And I need something to do with my time.”

He gives a short laugh that makes me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “You need someone to put all that energy into.” He leans down and kisses the top of my head. “A good husband. A home of your own. That’s what you should be focusing on.”

I hold still until he straightens.

“Until then, you can help your mother.” He turns toward his chair in the living room. “Go give her a hand with dinner. She’s been working hard all day.”

“Yes, sir.”

The answer comes without thought. I close my textbook and stack my notes before sliding everything into my backpack. By the time I stand, Dad is already sitting in his chair with the evening paper open in front of him. He doesn’t look at me again.

I carry my backpack into the kitchen, where Mom stands at the stove stirring spaghetti sauce while ground beef cooks in a pan beside it. She glances over her shoulder, and her expression changes when she notices the bag hanging from my shoulder.

“I told you I’d handle dinner so you could study for your test,” she says.

“It’s okay.” I set my backpack beside the kitchen table and roll up the sleeves of my cardigan. “I don’t mind helping.”

Her gaze stays on me for another second. She knows Dad sent me in here. I know she knows, but neither of us says it.

The sink is full, so I turn on the water and start washing the dishes. Mom moves around the kitchen behind me, draining the meat and checking the pot on the stove. For a little while, we don’t talk.

Then she steps beside me and gently pulls my hair over my shoulder before the ends can fall into the water.

“You’re such a good girl,” she says. “Your father’s right, you know. One day you’ll have your own home to take care of. That’s what matters most.”

I stare at the plate in my hands.

Good girl.

I’ve heard those words for as long as I can remember. I don’t sneak out or talk back. I’ve never dated anyone, and I’m always home when Dad expects me to be. I help Mom without complaining because that’s what a good daughter does.

Lately, I’ve started wondering what happens if being good never makes me happy.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

I rinse the soap from the plate even though it’s already clean. “Did you ever want something different?”

She stops moving beside me. “Different than what?”

“This.”

I keep my eyes on the water rushing over my hands.

The spoon taps softly against the side of the pot when she sets it down. When I finally look at her, her eyes are wet, but she blinks before anything can fall.

“Lucy,” she says quietly. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting more, but some paths are meant for us. Your father works hard so we can have this life. It’s our job to keep things peaceful for him.”

She’s never said that much before.

I glance toward the doorway. Dad is still in the living room, hidden behind the newspaper. “What if I don’t want this life?”

Mom reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Your father loves you. He wants what’s best for you, even when you don’t understand it yet. A good husband will take care of you. That’s how it’s always been in our family.”

“But what if I want to take care of myself?”

Her hand drops.

For one second, she looks frightened. Not angry or disappointed. Frightened.

Before she can answer, Dad calls from the living room. “Is dinner almost ready?”

Mom steps away from me so quickly she nearly bumps the stove.

“Almost,” she calls, her voice light again. She picks up the spoon and stirs the sauce even though it doesn’t need stirring. “You should set the table.”

The conversation is over.

I dry my hands and reach for the plates. My reflection stares back at me in the dark kitchen window. I'm nineteen years old, one semester away from earning my nursing degree, and I still need permission to finish studying for tomorrow's test.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting around the dining room table. Dad takes his usual seat at the head while Mom and I sit on either side of him. His plate has already been filled with extra sauce and the largest piece of garlic bread. Mom hasn’t touched her own food yet.

Dad talks about his day while I wind spaghetti around my fork and listen for the pauses where he expects one of us to respond.

Mom knows them too. She nods when he complains about a meeting that ran long, then murmurs her agreement when he says a younger man in the office doesn’t show him enough respect.

“I had to explain the entire account to him again,” Dad says. “Young people expect everything to be handed to them now.”

“That must be frustrating,” Mom says.

“It is.” He takes a drink of water, then looks at her. “You wouldn’t understand the details, sweetheart. It’s business. Most of it would go right over your head.”

Mom’s smile doesn’t move. “You’re probably right, dear. I’m sure it’s complicated.”

I press my fork against my plate harder than I mean to, and the metal scrapes against the ceramic.

Dad looks at me. “Something wrong?”

My hand stills. “No, sir.”

He watches me for a moment before returning to his dinner.

Mom reaches for his water glass and refills it without being asked. When the garlic bread basket gets low, she moves it closer to him. He keeps talking, and she keeps nodding as if he didn’t just insult her.

I’ve watched this happen my whole life. Tonight, I can’t pretend it’s normal.

Dad asks for more sauce, and Mom immediately pushes her chair back.

“I can get it,” I say.

She looks at me, surprised.

“I’m already up.” I take her bowl too. “Do you want more?”

Her fingers tighten around the edge of it before she lets go. “Yes, please.”

It’s a small thing. Dad probably doesn’t even notice, but Mom does.

When I return to the table, she gives me a faint smile. There’s gratitude in it, but there’s something else too. Something that makes me think she understood the question I was really asking in the kitchen, even if she couldn’t answer it.

I sit down and look at the two of them. Dad fills every silence because he believes his thoughts are the only ones worth sharing. Mom makes herself smaller so there’s always enough room for him.

That’s the future he wants for me. For the first time, I let myself admit that I don’t want it. I don’t know how to stop it yet, and I don’t know what will happen when Dad realizes I’m not willing to become the woman he’s chosen for me.

I only know that sitting here quietly won’t make the feeling go away.