3. Shannon
Shannon
I yawn and stretch, cuddling around Aiden’s warm body in the early morning hour. His steady breathing is sweeter than a bird’s early morning song. For the first time in weeks, I don’t wake up scanning for threats. My body feels loose, rested in a way I’d forgotten was possible.
Safe.
The word sits strange in my mind, like a language I used to speak but haven’t practiced in years. When was the last time I felt truly safe? Before Mason, certainly. Maybe not since Aiden’s father died and left us alone in a world that doesn’t much care about women like me.
But here, in this bed that smells like clean sheets and lavender detergent, with my son curled against my side like a warm comma, I can almost pretend we’re normal people living a normal life.
Almost.
Aiden stirs, blinking sleepy eyes at me. “Morning, Mama.”
“Morning, baby.” I brush his hair back from his forehead. “You sleep okay?”
He nods, then sits up with the sudden energy only three-year-olds possess. “Can we have pancakes?”
Pancakes. Such a simple thing, but it makes my chest tight with something that might be hope. When’s the last time he asked for something just because he wanted it, not because he was desperately hungry?
“I think we can manage that.”
A motorcycle pulls up outside while I’m mixing batter. My heart does this stupid little skip, and I tell myself it’s just relief that Savior’s checking in, not anticipation.
Aiden bounces toward the window. “He’s here!”
Three quick knocks, then the front door opens. “Shannon?”
“Kitchen,” I call, trying to keep my voice casual.
Savior fills the doorway, and the space feels too small. He’s wearing those faded jeans again and a charcoal henley that does absolutely nothing to hide the width of his shoulders. His hair’s damp like he just got out of the shower, and I catch the scent of soap and motor oil.
“Morning,” he says, nodding to Aiden before his gaze finds mine. “Kitchen faucet still giving you trouble?”
Right. I’d mentioned yesterday that it drips constantly. “It’s not too bad.”
“I’ve got tools in the truck. Won’t take long to fix.”
He moves toward the sink, and I have to step aside to let him pass. Our bodies brush, just for a second, but it’s enough to make my skin prickle with awareness. He doesn’t seem to notice, already examining the faucet with the focused attention he gives everything.
“Need to turn the water off under the sink,” he says, crouching down to open the cabinet.
I try to keep cooking, but the kitchen’s not big enough for both of us to work. Every time I reach for something, I’m aware of where he is, how close we are. When I move to the stove, my hip almost touches his shoulder. When he stands up, I have to step back, and my spine hits the counter.
“Coffee?” I ask, needing something to do with my hands.
“Thanks.”
I pour him a cup, and when I hand it to him, our fingers brush. Just skin touching skin for half a second, but heat shoots up my arm like I’ve been shocked.
Savior’s eyes flick to mine, and I wonder if he felt it too. But his expression stays carefully neutral.
“Need to grab a different wrench from the shed,” he says, setting the cup down. “This one’s stripped.”
“Okay.”
He heads outside, and I move to the window, ostensibly to check on the pancakes but really to watch him walk across the yard. He moves with that same controlled grace I noticed before, like a predator who knows exactly how dangerous he is but chooses to keep it leashed.
The shed’s old, and the door sticks. He puts his shoulder into it, muscles flexing under the henley as he forces it open. When he bends to search through a toolbox, the fabric pulls tight across his back, and I have to grip the spatula to keep from doing something stupid.
“Mama, pancakes stink.”
Shit, they’re burning. I flip them quickly, cursing under my breath.
When I look up again, Savior’s heading back, new wrench in hand.
He catches me watching through the window and raises an eyebrow.
My hands still on the spatula, and I turn back to the stove like I’ve been caught doing something illegal.
He comes back in without comment, returning to work under the sink. I finish the pancakes, hyperaware of every sound he makes—the clink of metal on metal, the quiet curse when something doesn’t cooperate, the way his breathing changes when he has to strain to reach something.
“There.” He straightens, turning the faucet handle. Water flows clean and steady, no drip. “Should be good now.”
“Thank you.” I gesture toward the table where I’ve set plates. “Stay for breakfast? It’s the least I can do.”
He hesitates, weighing options. The smart thing would be to leave, maintain that professional distance he’s been trying so hard to keep.
“Please,” I add, and something in my voice makes his resolve crack.
“Alright. Just for a few minutes.”
We sit around the small table—me, Aiden, and this dangerous man who’s somehow become our protector. Aiden chatters about his coloring book while we eat, and for a moment, it feels almost normal. Like we’re a family sharing breakfast on a lazy Saturday morning.
But under the surface, the air between us is so charged it’s hard to breathe. Every time Savior passes the syrup or reaches for his coffee, I’m aware of his hands. When he laughs at something Aiden says, my gaze keeps landing on his mouth.
This is dangerous territory, and I know it. But sitting here in the morning light, watching this hard man be gentle with my son, I can’t bring myself to care.
For the first time in three years, I want something more than just survival. And that terrifies me more than anything Mason could do.
The next day, Savior shows up at noon in a black pickup truck that’s seen better years but purrs like it’s well-maintained. I’ve been ready for an hour, changing clothes twice and telling myself it doesn’t matter what I wear to a job interview at a biker bar.
“Ready to meet Red?” he asks when I climb into the passenger seat with Aiden.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The drive to The Black Crown takes twenty minutes.
I spend most of it trying not to notice how Savior’s hands look on the steering wheel, or the way his jaw flexes when he’s thinking.
Aiden chatters from his car seat about everything he sees out the window, and Savior actually responds, pointing out a hawk circling overhead and a train in the distance.
It’s so normal it hurts.
The Black Crown looks exactly like what it is—a biker bar that doesn’t apologize for existing. Weathered black wood, neon beer signs, and a rusted chopper welded to the roof like a battle flag. The kind of place I would have crossed the street to avoid a week ago.
Now it might be my salvation.
Red—Reyna Vasquez—is a force of nature packed into five feet and four inches of pure attitude. Dark hair streaked with actual red, ink covering both arms, and eyes that see everything. She takes one look at me and Aiden and seems to understand the situation without explanation.
“You can start Monday,” she says after a ten-minute conversation that feels more like an evaluation than an interview. “Day shift, eleven to six. Tips are decent if you don’t take shit from the customers.”
“I don’t take shit from anyone,” I say, and mean it.
Red grins. “I like her already.”
The drive back to the safehouse is quieter. Aiden falls asleep in his car seat, and I steal glances at Savior’s profile. Strong jaw, straight nose, those pale eyes focused on the road ahead. When we pull into the driveway, I make a decision that’s probably stupid but feels necessary.
“Stay for dinner?” The words come out before I can second-guess them. “It’s the least I can do. You’ve done so much—”
“You don’t owe me anything, Shannon.”
“I know. But Aiden likes you, and I… I’d like the company.”
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s going to refuse. Then: “Alright. Just for a bit.”
Dinner is spaghetti and jarred sauce—nothing fancy, but it’s hot and filling. Aiden perks up with Savior there, telling him about the pictures he colored and asking if he can ride the motorcycle again someday.
“Maybe when you’re bigger,” Savior says. “And your mama says it’s okay.”
After dinner, Aiden starts getting cranky and clingy, the way he does when he’s overtired. I’m about to start the bedtime routine when Savior surprises me.
“Want me to read him a story?”
Aiden’s whole face lights up. “Yes! Savior read story!”
They disappear into the bedroom. The low rumble of Savior’s voice drifts through the walls as he reads. Something about it—this dangerous man being gentle with my son—makes my chest tight with emotion I don’t want to examine too closely.
When he comes back, Aiden’s asleep, and I’m washing dishes at the sink.
“Out cold,” Savior says, leaning against the counter. “Kid was exhausted.”
“Thank you. For reading to him. He doesn’t… he doesn’t have many men in his life who are kind to him.”
Something flickers across Savior’s face, but he just nods.
We clean up together, and it’s awkward again—the kitchen too small, both of us hyperaware of where the other is. When I reach for a dish towel, our hands brush. When he moves to put away the leftovers, I have to step aside, and we’re too close, breathing the same air.
He looks at me for a moment, something hungry and conflicted in his eyes. Then he steps back.
“I should go.”
But he doesn’t move toward the door. Just stands there like he’s fighting with himself.
“Is that really what you want to do?” I ask. “Leave?”
His jaw ticks. “Shannon—”
“No, I need you to tell me. Because I can’t read men, apparently. I’m done trying to figure it out.” I turn to face him fully. “I want a man who’s straightforward. So tell me—do you want to leave?”
“You don’t know what you want.”
The words sting. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been through hell. You’re grateful, confused, probably lonely as hell. But that doesn’t mean—”
“Don’t.” I step closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in his pale eyes. “Don’t tell me what I feel.”
I reach up and touch his chest, feel his heart hammering under my palm. “I know exactly what I want.”
“Shannon, don’t—”
I kiss him.
It’s not gentle or tentative. It’s three years of loneliness and want and need exploding into one desperate moment, our mouths crashing together with pent-up desire.
His lips part with a sharp intake of breath just as my tongue glides into the hot, sensuous warmth of his mouth.
For one suspended heartbeat, he goes completely still—then his control shatters, and he’s on me like a starving man, his arms crushing me against him as he deepens the kiss with furious possession.
His groan vibrates through me as his tongue strokes against mine, erasing any space between us, making me gasp into his mouth.
The kiss turns deeper, darker, a claiming that sends liquid heat pooling low in my stomach.
My fingers tangle in his hair, pressing him closer until I can feel the racing thunder of his heart against my chest. The taste of him—coffee and something uniquely male—steals my breath, and I cling to him, our mouths moving together in a frenzied rhythm that threatens to consume us both.
Then he tears himself away so abruptly the loss is a raw ache in my chest, his hands pushing me back so hard I stagger. His chest heaves, his eyes wild and dark with the same desperate hunger surging through my veins.
“Fuck.” He drags both hands through his hair, pacing like a caged animal, the raw need we’d just shared still humming in the air between us. “This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.”
“Why?” The word escapes in a ragged breath, harsher than I intended. “Because you think I don’t know my own mind?”
“Because I don’t want you to be a one and done,” he says, and there’s something raw in his voice. “I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and regret this.”
“I won’t—”
“You thought you wanted Mason too.”
The words are a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. I actually stagger, like he’s slapped me.
“That’s not…” I can’t finish the sentence. Can’t breathe around the pain in my chest.
“Shannon, I didn’t mean—”
“Get out.” My voice is barely a whisper.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Get out!” This time it’s a shout, and I don’t care if I wake Aiden. “Just leave.”
He stands there for a moment, looking like he wants to say something else. Then he grabs his keys and walks out without another word.
His truck starts up. The sound fades into nothing. Then I sink onto the couch and let myself cry—for my stupidity, for my loneliness, for the way he made Mason’s name sound like an accusation.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I don’t know what I want.
But I know what I don’t want—to be treated like a victim who can’t make her own choices.