He can’t seriously want me to be a nanny to his kids? Can he? He doesn’t even know me! How can he trust his kids with a complete stranger? One look at the smile on his face and I know he means it. I want to scream at him. How does he expect me to get his kids to respond to me? I can’t talk to them. I suddenly have the urge to cry in frustration, but I resist—barely.

“What’s wrong with her?” his little boy asks, and God help me, he sounds just as surly and grumpy as his dad.

“Is she broken?” the little girl asks, walking to me and reaching for my hand. I fight the urge to pull it away. She’s sweet, but I feel like I’m on display and that’s never a feeling I’ve been comfortable with. If she only knew how broken I am. Then again, no child should ever know that feeling. I watch as her small hand encompasses mine.

“There’s nothing wrong with her.” Marcum exhales loudly, rubbing the side of his neck with his hand. For a minute my eyes get lost staring at that hand. It’s covered in ink, and I mean there’s not a speck of skin on his hand that isn’t marked in some fashion, and he has on these rings…skulls and insignias, large and heavy silver. I’ve never been around a man who wears rings, unless it’s my boss at the diner. Then again, all he wears is a wedding ring—nothing like this. Marcum’s hands should make you afraid. They’re so big, it’s not a stretch of the imagination to think he could physically rip someone’s head off … or at least choke the life out of them.

Of course he’s probably done that.

“Toi? Are you listening?” Marcum’s voice growls, interrupting my thoughts. I breathe heavily to indicate my frustration. Marcum either ignores the sound or doesn’t care. I’m betting on it being the latter.

When I look at him he’s holding out a notebook and a pencil. I frown.

What? I mouth, not bothering to say the word. I add in a motion with my hands that indicates a question and just because his kids are here I don’t flip him off—which is what I really want to do.

This time it is Marcum who breathes out his irritation, and his is much more effective.

“I was telling my kids that you had an accident and have trouble speaking so you’ll communicate like this,” he grumbles, waving the notebook and pencil.

I take it from him, but I do it not understanding. His kids are young—probably too young for an old coot like him to have. Can they even read? Does he really think this can work? I stare down at the notebook, unsure of what to do.

“Tell my kids hi,” he huffs, clearly at the end of his patience. I don’t think Marcum has much patience.

It takes me a minute to get the notebook open, but I write on it and hold it out.

Hi.

“I’m Desi! And this is my brother, Harley!” the little girl says, her voice high-pitched and excited.

I blink. I’ve never been around kids. She’s beautiful and her energy is infectious, but I feel way out of my depth.

“Is she stupid?” Harley asks and hand to God, his voice in that moment sounds just like Marcum.

My eyes go to him in shock. I’ve heard shit like that before, but not from a piss ant who has yet to grow into a man. He’s going to be trouble. If I take this job—and it’s not like I have a lot of choice—I’m going to have to try and contain that pint-sized, alpha-in-training, mini-Marcum and that’s really not going to be easy.

Marcum takes the palm of his hand and slaps the back of mini-Marcum’s head. I blink. That seems harsh, but then, I don’t have kids. So, what do I know?

“Shit, Dad! What was that for?” he asks.

Okay, I know that little kids shouldn’t say shit… right?

Marcum must agree, because he slaps him on the back of the head again.

“Show some respect and what the fuck did I tell you about using grown-up words?” Marcum asks and my mouth drops open. Does he not realize he just said fuck? Hello pot, meet kettle and all that jazz.

“Hi,” Harley says, reluctantly, rubbing the back of his head.

“I’ll leave you guys to get acquainted,” Marcum says. “Be nice,” he orders with a warning look to Harley.

“We will!” Desi chirps. “We’ll introduce her to the others.”

“Good.” He kisses the top of Desi’s head and then does the same to Harley. My heart flutters watching it. I’ve never seen a parent be good to a child before… weird but true. And also, it hits me just how much Harley and Marcum are alike. Of course it helps that Harley is wearing a leather jacket, white T-shirt and jeans, which is almost exactly what Marcum is wearing. It’s just that Marcum is wearing a leather cut instead of a jacket, and it has patches on it proclaiming him not only a member of the Saints, but also the president of them.

He walks around me to leave and I don’t think, I just reach out and grab his arm. Marcum stops and looks over his shoulder at me.

Others? I mouth my question and for some reason he grins and my gaze is frozen on his face—specifically his mouth.

“Yeah, Dragonfly. I have more than two kids. You’re in charge of all of them.”

I huff and hold up my finger, indicating he should wait a minute. Then I write in my notebook.

I don’t know how to care for kids!

“You’ll learn,” Marcum answers as he reads the page I hold up. Then he shrugs. “Unless you’ve decided you’d rather become a club—”

I clap my hand over his mouth—harder than I needed to—and let my eyes shoot imaginary daggers at him. I look back at the kids and then to him, trying to relay the message. I’m not sure it does any good, because he just laughs and leaves the room.

I stare at the closed door for a minute. Then I stare down at a smiling Desi and an obviously unhappy Harley.

Shit.