Running From My Abusive Husband, Claimed By A Biker

Chapter Five

Emma's POV

I woke at five in the morning, just as I always did. For a few groggy seconds, I lay still, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling. Then it all came rushing back. I wasn't in that house anymore. I was free. Far away from that monster.

My gaze drifted to the clock hanging on the wall.

5:00 a.m.

A bitter smile tugged at my lips. Even after leaving Shawn, my body still woke at the exact same hour every morning. Some habits didn't disappear just because your surroundings changed. They settled deep beneath your skin, refusing to let go.

For years, my mornings had followed the same routine. Wake up. Clean every room in the house. Cook breakfast. Do the laundry. By the time Shawn and Noah came downstairs, everything had to be spotless. I'd serve breakfast, only for Shawn to shove his plate away or sneer at my cooking.

"Is this garbage supposed to be food?" he'd snap. "You call yourself a wife? Even a seven-year-old could cook better than this."

Before I could lower my head in silence, Noah would immediately come to my defense. "Daddy's wrong!" he'd protest, his little face scrunched into a frown. "Mommy is the best chef in the whole wide world! Mommy makes the best food!"

Shawn would throw his head back and laugh. "Oh, really?" he'd mock. "And how many chefs have you eaten from before, huh? Tell me that. Have you traveled the world tasting everyone's cooking?"

Noah would only blink in confusion, too young to understand the sarcasm dripping from his father's words. That only made Shawn laugh harder. As though humiliating both of us was the funniest thing in the world.

I'd reach beneath the table and gently squeeze Noah's tiny hand, forcing a smile despite the ache in my chest. It was my silent way of thanking him for trying to protect me, even though I knew nothing either of us said would ever change Shawn.

The memory lingered, threatening to drag me back into that miserable life. I took a slow breath and pushed it away. No. That was over. Shawn's insults, his mocking laughter and the endless cycle of abuse I could never escape.

It was all behind me now.

I closed my eyes again and tried to drift back to sleep. I counted my breaths, turned onto my side and pulled the blanket higher.

Nothing. After nearly an hour of tossing and turning, I gave up with a quiet sigh and slipped out of bed.

The building was eerily silent. The hallways were dim, lit only by the faint glow of a few wall lamps. Everyone else was still asleep. I wrapped the cardigan tighter and wandered through the quiet hallways, opening one door after another until I found what I was looking for. The kitchen.

Yesterday, those men had opened their doors to my son and me without hesitation. They barely knew us, yet because of my grandfather, they'd given us a safe place to sleep, food to eat, and protection when we had nowhere else to go. I couldn't repay them for everything they'd done. But maybe I could at least make them breakfast. The thought brought a small smile to my face.

I had no idea how many people actually stayed here.

Ten?

Maybe more.

Better to make too much than too little. If there were leftovers, they could always eat them later.

Decision made, I opened the refrigerator and my eyes widened. It was packed. Eggs, bacon, sausages, fresh vegetables, cheese, butter, milk... Whoever did the grocery shopping for this place certainly didn't believe in running out of food.

I chuckled softly to myself before rolling up the sleeves of my oversized hoodie. "All right," I murmured. "Let's see what I can do."

Soon, the quiet kitchen filled with the comforting sounds of butter sizzling in a hot pan, vegetables being chopped, and pancake batter being whisked together. The rich aroma of bacon soon followed, mingling with freshly brewed coffee and warm maple syrup. It reminded me of happier mornings—ones that had existed only in my imagination.

I lost myself in the rhythm of cooking. Crack the eggs, whisk, flip the pancakes and stir the hash browns. It was strangely peaceful.

I had just finished arranging the last batch of pancakes onto a serving platter when a deep yawn echoed behind me. I gasped, the spatula nearly slipping from my fingers. "Oh!" I spun around so quickly my heart lurched. "I'm sorry."

A broad-shouldered man with messy blond hair stood in the doorway, looking just as startled as I was. His leather vest hung open over a faded gray T-shirt, and his blond hair stuck up in every direction, as though he'd rolled straight out of bed. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then his nose twitched and he sniffed once. Twice. His sleepy expression disappeared. "...What the hell am I smelling?"

Heat rushed to my face.

"I'm sorry," I blurted. "I should've asked before using the kitchen. I just... I wanted to thank everyone for helping Noah and me. If I wasn't supposed to cook, I'll clean everything up."

His gaze swept slowly across the counters. Platters of pancakes, Eggs. Bacon, Sausages, Hash browns, Fresh fruit. Enough food to feed a small army.

"You made... all this?" he asked.

I nodded, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "I didn't know how many people lived here, so I guessed. I figured it was better to make too much than not enough."

He scratched the back of his neck. "Huh." Before he could say anything else, another voice drifted down the hallway.

"What the hell smells so damn good?" A second man wandered into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He took one look at the food and stopped dead. "...Jesus."

His gaze shifted to me and then back to the food. Then to the first man. "You order catering?"

The blond man snorted. "Nope."

Silence settled over the room. The second man folded his arms, studying me for a moment—not hostile, but cautious. "So..." he drawled. "You're the old man's granddaughter."

I nodded. Another few seconds passed before he finally jerked his chin toward the food. "Looks good."

It wasn't exactly praise, but it still felt genuine. Heavy footsteps began to echo from the hallway, soon joined by a second pair, and then voices drifted closer, rough and deep.

“The hell’s everyone doing in here?” one demanded, while another barked, “Move your ass. I can smell bacon,” and a third added with genuine menace, “I swear, if someone ate the last sausage before I got here…”