Chapter 39 #2
Thatch shared a stunned look with Briggs, then dipped his head as he started forcing Evans toward the kitchen, most likely to calm him down.
“I already know how Thatch feels about it from last time,” Briggs muttered once they were gone. “He doesn’t like it, but he knows they’re useful.” When he didn’t continue, I realized he was waiting for our input.
Something he usually didn’t ask for.
Then again, he usually went over everything with Rush in closed-door meetings before finally making his decisions, and we still didn’t know where Rush was.
“Are you asking us how we feel about them being here, or joining their family?” I asked, and let my mouth slant into a smirk at Briggs’ sharp glare.
“We aren’t joining their family. We aren’t mafia.”
I curled Mallory close to my side, and felt my pulse quicken when she easily went there, as if she’d been waiting to be there. “I don’t know, Briggs,” I said with a lift of my shoulder. “Kinda seems like we’re getting close with all this help we’re accepting from them.”
His eyes rolled at the gentle tease, but he just looked at Mallory in question.
Mallory, who’d been surprisingly silent nearly the entire time.
Then again, the hand that had been wrapped up in mine had tensed and twitched every minute, as if that panic she’d been drowning in for days had been in overdrive, and it’d taken all her focus to keep her hands from reaching for her stomach in front of our ARCK friends.
“Why are you looking at me?” she finally asked, as if just realizing Briggs was waiting on her. “I’ve never actually gotten a vote, but if I do, you already know what mine is.”
Briggs’ quick sigh said he did.
Mallory wasn’t afraid to jump into a fight where the odds were stacked against us. Ten-to-one fight? She’d try to hide her excitement behind that icy exterior, all while the energy buzzing from her gave her away.
Still, if it evened out the playing field, Mallory was for it.
“And Evans?” he asked.
“That was unexpected,” I admitted, “even to Thatch. We’ll just need to keep him away from the twins until he has time to calm down and get used to the idea.”
Briggs folded his arms over his chest as he warred over what to do before finally admitting, “It’ll help with Rush being . . .” He tossed a hand to the side before crossing it again. “And with Monroe—”
“Don’t,” she said in warning, then blew out a resigned breath. “I already know. Just . . . don’t say it.”
I reached for her when she slipped away from me and turned for the hallway without another word.
Every part of me wanted to follow her. I even took a step in that direction before a dozen years of taking orders from Briggs had me rocking back and gritting my teeth to see him watching her go with a furrowed brow.
After a moment, he seemed to sag and unfolded his arms to drag his hands over his face in an uncharacteristic display of apprehension. His arms fell heavily before he drew back his shoulders and fixed his expression into that furrowed scowl.
It was like watching Mallory slip her shields into place.
“What if this destroys everything?” he asked in that quiet frustration. “Missions were missions, and we all knew the cost. But this? These are our families, Gray. These are our wives and our—” He choked over the next word and swallowed thickly.
I nodded absentmindedly for a long while before muttering, “Briggs, I know you don’t want to think it, but what Einstein was saying was right.”
“We aren’t in the mafia,” he ground out.
“No,” I agreed carefully. “But we’ve been working with them, even when we didn’t realize it.
And, more importantly, we have a mafia family—families—who want nothing more than to take you down.
That includes anyone connected to you. We might not be mafia, but we’re connected to them in a lot of ways. We’re in that world.”
Briggs’ eyelids slowly shut, but it was evident in his expression that I wasn’t informing him of anything he didn’t already know. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself and was drowning under the regret of it all since this feud with the Wreckers had started with him.
“Our families are already in danger,” I told him unnecessarily. “Might as well use ARCK while they’re offering the help.”
After a handful of seconds, he gave a firm nod.
“Heard from Rush this afternoon?”
The cold look he sent me told me he hadn’t, but he just jerked his chin toward the hallway behind me, and asked, “How’s Monroe?”
I shifted backward instinctively, feeling that call toward her even stronger now that she’d been mentioned. “She knows she can’t fight right now. She isn’t happy, but she understands.” At the subtle doubt furrowing Briggs’ brow, I added, “Sort of.”
He grunted in acknowledgment, then took his own step away, silently releasing me. “I need to talk to Lainey before I talk to ARCK.”
“Yep,” I said, already starting away from him, only to rock back and ask, “Where will they be staying? Those four wouldn’t have fit in here, and Kieran said there were more of them.”
“Not my problem,” Briggs muttered as he stalked off.
Right.
Running a hand through my hair, I gripped at the strands and tried to mentally prepare for everything ahead of us . . . and me.
ARCK coming in with their implications. Evans’ grudge against them. A potential mafia war. When and if Rush was coming back. And how Mallory was going to handle sitting all this out.
But when I opened the door to our borrowed room, ready to talk and argue out all her frustrations, I found her exactly the same way I had earlier—knees tucked close to prop up her drawing tablet—only this time, she was out cold.
In an instant, the familiar panic that had crept in all week stole through my veins as I quickly, instinctively searched for signs that she was breathing.
A panic that had, thankfully, lessened each time I’d turned my head and found her unexpectedly asleep, or walked into a room to find her like this.
But just as I knew she was going to keep reaching for her stomach until she started showing and feeling our baby move, at the very least, it was going to take a while for me to get past the memory of her not breathing.
Grabbing the drawing tablet from her, I felt a smile curl at the edges of my mouth when I realized she hadn’t even managed to open the cover before falling asleep.
Setting it and the stylus on the nightstand, I closed the blinds and curtains before carefully straightening her legs and climbing onto the bed beside her.
Easing my arm through hers, I slid my hand down until my fingers were pressed against the inside of her wrist. Letting the faint yet steady beat of her pulse against my fingertips ease every tense muscle in my body as I shut my own eyes.
Only for them to snap back open at her soft, stuttered inhale. “I know what you’re doing,” she whispered seconds later.
“Go back to sleep, Peach.”
More seconds passed before she conceded with a weighted breath and slowly, carefully turned onto her side.
Once I was curled around her and holding her close, fingers pressed against her pulse point, she drowsily whispered, “Don’t get used to getting your way.”
My chest hitched with amusement. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”