Chapter 11
Kelly
By the time I get the girls upstairs, my heart still hasn’t fully settled. The whole walk through the house feels like I’m running on the tail end of adrenaline—my hands still a little shaky, my thoughts still sharp and frantic in a way I can’t seem to shut off.
Madison is drooping against my shoulder, all the sugar and excitement from the party finally catching up to her, while Maddy rubs sleepy fists against her eyes from where she’s balanced on my other hip.
I carry them straight into the bathroom, flipping on the soft light above the sink before setting them down on the bath mat while I start the water in the tub.
The house is quieter now. Not silent—there’s still the faint muffled sound of voices downstairs, the occasional deep rumble of laughter from one of the brothers who hasn’t left yet, the creak of the back door opening and closing—but up here it feels removed from all of it.
Just me and my girls.
Maddy yawns so wide her whole face scrunches. Madison immediately crawls toward the cabinet beneath the sink like she’s on a mission. I catch her by the back of her little onesie before she can get too far.
“Oh no, you don’t,” I murmur, scooping her up and kissing her soft cheek. “I have had enough chaos for one day.”
She gives me a sleepy, stubborn little pout that looks so much like Mason it nearly makes me laugh. Nearly. But then my eyes flick to the window and the image slams right back into my head—Two tiny pink motorcycles sitting in the backyard.
Johnny running toward them.
The girls trying to climb on.
Demon standing there looking so damn proud of himself. My stomach tightens all over again.
I blow out a slow breath and force myself to focus on the water filling the tub, on the small ordinary motions of bedtime. The girls need me to be calm. They don’t need me replaying worst-case scenarios in my head.
I undress them carefully, peeling them out of their onesies and diapers while they squirm and fuss in that overtired way babies do when they’ve had too much fun and not enough naps.
Madison keeps trying to roll away from me, and Maddy decides halfway through getting undressed that she’s too tired to sit up and just topples sideways onto the bath mat with a dramatic whine.
I laugh softly and brush a kiss over the top of her head.
“Long day, huh?”
She blinks up at me with heavy eyes, then reaches one chubby hand toward me in silent demand to be picked up.
My sweet girls. I lower them both into the warm water, and just like that the tension in the room eases a little. Madison splashes immediately, both palms smacking against the surface with enough force to send water up onto my shirt.
Maddy lets out a sleepy little giggle and follows her lead, kicking one leg through the water until both girls are making a mess of bubbles and ripples and tiny happy squeals.
This.
This is what I need. Not Demon. Not motorcycles.
Not Ghost and Justice helping him escape like they were part of some criminal operation.
Just this—my girls in the tub, their cheeks pink from a long day, their lashes still damp from all the excitement, their little bodies warm and slippery with soap as I wash birthday frosting and grass and sweat from their skin.
I shampoo Maddy’s hair first, working the soap gently through her soft curls while she tries to catch the bubbles sliding down her forehead. Then I do Madison’s, who complains loudly the entire time like I’m personally victimizing her.
“Drama queen,” I whisper, rinsing the soap from her hair.
She glares at me with wet lashes and fat cheeks and somehow still looks adorable enough that my chest hurts. By the time they’re clean and wrapped in fluffy towels, they’re both half asleep.
Maddy rests her damp head against my shoulder while I carry them into their bedroom, and Madison keeps blinking slowly like she’s fighting to stay awake but losing badly.
The nursery is dim and warm when I step inside, lit only by the soft yellow glow of the lamp in the corner.
Their birthday decorations from earlier still sit on the dresser—tiny pink bows, the framed one-year sign I made, a few tissue-paper flowers Bella helped me put together.
It smells like baby powder, clean laundry, and the lavender lotion I rub into their skin every night after a bath.
Home.
I lay them down on the changing table one at a time, diapering them and dressing them in soft footed sleepers—Maddy in pale pink, Madison in white with little red hearts scattered across it.
My fingers move slowly, carefully, like if I focus hard enough on each tiny snap and each little sock-covered foot I can keep the fear at bay.
But it’s still there.
Waiting.
I brush lotion into their skin, smooth my palms over their little bellies, kiss their cheeks and foreheads and noses until they start to fuss at me for delaying bedtime.
Then I lift Maddy first and settle her in her crib.
She rolls immediately onto her stomach, little diapered butt in the air, clutching the corner of her blanket in one hand. Madison goes in beside her own crib rail a second later, rubbing her face against her mattress before curling around her stuffed rabbit.
I stand there, one hand resting on each of their backs, and just watch.
Their room is quiet. Within minutes, their breathing starts to even out.
Maddy’s lashes rest against her cheeks. Madison’s little fingers go slack around the rabbit’s ear.
And as I stand there in the low light watching my daughters drift off to sleep, all I can think about is how easily today could’ve gone wrong if they were older and able to ride those motorcycles.
How fast it could’ve happened. One wrong move. One slip. One little body toppling the wrong way. A tiny hand caught under a wheel. A face hitting gravel. A broken arm. A head injury. A scream I can’t fix. The thoughts come hard and ugly, one after another, each worse than the last.
My throat tightens so suddenly it feels hard to breathe. I grip the crib rail harder.
God. No. Absolutely not.
The fear that rushes through me is so sharp it feels physical—like ice sliding beneath my skin, like a fist closing around my lungs. I know Demon didn’t mean anything by it. I know, somewhere beneath the panic and anger, that he was trying to do something sweet in his own completely unhinged way.
But all I can think is that my babies are still babies. They still need help getting down the stairs. They still cry when they lose their pacifiers in the middle of the night. They still reach for me when they’re tired and cling to Mason when they’re scared.
They are not big enough for motorcycles. Not even tiny pink ones.
I lean down and kiss each of them again, longer this time, breathing them in like I need to remind myself they’re safe. They’re here. They’re okay. They’re asleep in their own beds after a happy day full of family and laughter and too much cake.
They’re fine.
They’re fine.
I repeat it silently until I almost believe it. Then I pick up the baby monitor from the dresser and carry it with me back to my bedroom. The house is quiet by the time I’m finally ready for bed.
The guests must’ve gone home because I don’t hear voices downstairs anymore. No laughter drifting up through the windows. No deep rumble of motorcycles outside. Just the occasional creak of the house settling and the faint sound of movement down stairs.
I change into one of Mason’s old T-shirts and crawl beneath the covers, too tired to do much more than brush my hair and wash the last traces of makeup from my face.
I mean to stay awake. I tell myself I’m just going to rest for a minute until Mason comes upstairs. But when I glance at the clock and see it’s already almost ten, I realize how exhausted I actually am.
By the time the bedroom door finally opens, I’m curled on my side with the blankets tucked up around my waist, staring at the baby monitor screen where the girls sleep peacefully in their cribs.
Mason steps inside and shuts the door softly behind him.
He looks tired too. His hair is a mess from running his hands through it, and there’s still a faint smear of grease on one forearm.
He smells like outside air, dish soap, and smoke from the barbecue.
His eyes find me immediately, and some of the tension in his face eases.
“You still awake?”
“Barely.”
He smiles a little.
“Girls asleep?”
“Yeah.”
He nods and heads for the bathroom, tugging his shirt over his head as he goes.
The shower turns on a second later, and I lie there listening to the rush of water while the monitor flickers quietly beside me.
I can hear him moving around in there, the soft thud of a bottle being set down, the scrape of the shower door.
When he comes back out, his hair is damp and curling slightly at the ends, and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of black sleep pants riding low on his hips.
My husband is unfairly attractive. Even after a day like today. Even when I’m still a little mad.
The mattress dips as he climbs into bed beside me, and the second he’s settled, he reaches for me automatically—one strong arm sliding around my waist, pulling me back against the solid heat of his chest until my spine is pressed to him and his mouth is brushing my temple.
I let him. Because no matter how irritated I still am about the motorcycles, this is home too. Mason warm behind me. The scent of his soap. The weight of his arm over my stomach. The quiet, steady comfort of him.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head and exhales slowly.
“I cleaned up downstairs,” he murmurs. “Got the kitchen straightened out, put away what leftovers I could. Got Johnny washed up and into bed too.”
My shoulders soften a little.
“How was he?”
Mason lets out a low huff of laughter against my hair.
“Heartbroken over the bikes bein’ put away.”
I close my eyes.
“Of course he is.”
“He was half asleep by the time I got him into bed, but he still tried to ask if he could ride one tomorrow.”