Chapter 12 #2
This time, he doesn’t kiss me. He just takes a step back and then another before turning to jog outside. I watch through the window as Jinx and several other club brothers gather around to have a look at it.
Fear crawls up my spine, because what if it is a bomb?
Someone comes out, wearing strange protective clothing.
He’s carrying something that looks like a metal toolbox.
The others back away to give him space. My hand comes up to cover my mouth, horrified by what I’m seeing.
But after a few seconds he shakes his head and picks it up. I’m guessing it was nothing.
That was my father all over. The king of psychological warfare. Though I wouldn’t put it past him to actually try and get an explosive device into the compound.
I turn away from the window as my mind goes in several different directions at once.
Maybe they were trying to knock out the Sons’ security system or their communications.
The thought occurs to me that maybe they don’t want me back.
Maybe my father has decided to make an example out of me.
He’s definitely the type to punish turncoats severely.
Maybe he’s decided if they can’t have me, no one else can either.
I drop down into one of the kitchen chairs and let that roll around in my head for a minute.
They eventually bring the dead drone in and heave it up onto one of the pool tables they’ve covered with a couple of quilts. We all watch as Striker pries the casing open and frowns. “There’s no camera, not even a gimbal mount.” He turns the carcass over.
The answer is already plain as the nose on my face. “It’s just another part of my father’s psychological warfare. He sent it here with that fake bomb attached to prove he could. He wanted to prove that he could get a weapon into your compound. He’s testing you.”
Jasper turns from the table. “Explain. I want to understand.”
“My father does this. He pokes at a thing he’s planning to hit to see how it reacts.” I gesture at the wreck. “He’ll be looking to see how long it took you to realize it was in your airspace, how long it took your crew to mount a defense, how long from the alarm to the first shot?”
“How can he know any of that without a camera?” Slate’s voice rings out.
Rock responds, “They might have another drone whose job is just to capture footage of our reaction. Then again, they might be close enough to have eyes on our response themselves.”
“Forty seconds,” Striker says grimly, checking his screen. “From the first alarm to the kill took forty seconds. And yeah, the gate guard turned east. Everybody turned east.”
“We’ve trained on this,” Jasper tells them. “When something pops off in one location, we can’t all turn our attention in that direction because it leaves us vulnerable to attack from a different direction. We can’t afford to lose our clubhouse because we fell for an old-fashioned bait and switch.”
Rock nods. “Jasper’s right. We need to stop making rookie mistakes.”
Looking from the drone to me, he asks, “Anything else your old man likes to do?”
“He never pokes the same spot twice. When he comes, it won’t be the east wall.” I force myself to say the rest. “And it’ll be soon, within twenty-four to forty-eight hours because he doesn’t waste time.”
“Then we change up our response. Tighten our plan.” Jasper’s already moving.
“Striker, redraw the response plan. Nobody abandons a post to see what’s going on in another location.
We all need to defend our assigned area, like our lives depend on it because they do. Slate, set me up new gate rotations.”
***
By the time we make it to his room, it’s approaching midnight. The day has been stressful beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. Jinx is holding up better than I am, but we’re both thoroughly exhausted.
He scoops me off my feet, takes me to the bedroom and sits me on the bed. I think he’s going to step back, but he doesn’t. His hands come up to slowly remove my cut, and the rest of my clothing, piece by piece.
He pulls off his cut and his t-shirt before unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down his legs.
I pull him down over me, wanting to feel his body against mine again. One hand comes up to cup the side of my face. Right now, we’re just two people who love each other finally getting to be something other than worried for our safety.
He holds himself up with one hand and uses the other to skim over my soft skin until I’m covered in goose bumps and trembling with need. “Jinx, please,” I say.
He immediately moves on, cupping one breast in his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before teasing my nipple. He knows exactly what spikes my arousal and isn’t shy about doing it.
I let myself believe he wants me for me, not because I’m useful in this club war between the Sons and my father’s club, or because danger threw us together. Believing he wants me for me is one of the most reckless things I’ve done since I climbed onto the back of his bike.
When his hand drifts down to cover my stomach, I freeze.
Of course he notices. “Hey, sweetness. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I reply too fast. “I just don’t like being touched there. My stomach. It’s…” I struggle to come up with a believable excuse.
His face gentles in the dimly lit room, as he comes to the wrong conclusion, assuming I have some insecurities about my body.
“You’re gorgeous, sweetheart. Every damn inch. But I’m not all about your body, I love the way you speak up for what you want, you’re it for me.”
As his hand goes back to my stomach, his words hit me right in the feels.
I try to wrangle my emotions back under control while he keeps his hand exactly where it is.
Letting me know he loves me, no matter what.
His hand is warm and certain, comforting a secret he doesn’t know he’s holding.
I have never felt this kind of love and acceptance.
I’m so touched that I almost open my mouth and tell him what’s under his palm.
I don’t, because now is not the time. But I really want to. Instead, I pull him down, wrap my legs around his hips and let him give us both the pleasure we so richly deserve after such a miserable day.
When he first plunges inside me, I can feel every inch of him. Now that we’ve been having regular sex, I can take him easily.
I scrape my nails down his back, as he moves inside me.
For the first time, I trail my nails down his buttocks and his hips, tracing the lines of his tattoos.
His movements become rougher and faster with each new scrape of my nails.
He likes being scratched, the way I like a little hair pulling during sex.
When he grabs a handful of my hair and tips my head back to capture my lips without losing his rhythm, I gasp.
His tongue tangles with mine in a sensual dance that I can’t get enough of.
He murmurs my name, his voice deep and rough.
His hand slides back down to my stomach and he uses his thumb to stroke tight circles around my clit until I come screaming his name.
His movement becomes faster as he chases his own orgasm and when he’s ready, he pushes deep, emptying his seed deep inside me.
We stay locked together for I don’t know how long before he reluctantly moves off me and tugs me close.
We lie on our sides spooning. I feel warm, safe, and sated in his arms. I can’t let my family mess this up for me, or for my child.
I wake up in the wee hours of the morning because I need to use the restroom.
That’s when I realize that I’m spotting.
There’s not much blood. But the fact that there’s blood where none should be, worries me.
That’s when a low, pinching cramp takes hold.
It’s different from anything I’ve ever experienced before.
I’m smart enough to know that these two things mean I need medical attention.
I’m hiding a pregnancy inside a locked-down compound that might be attacked at any minute.
I don’t have a doctor, and I haven’t been honest with anyone about being pregnant, not even the man responsible.
I didn’t even admit it to the woman downstairs who already knows and keeps encouraging me to drink ginger ale.
My silence isn’t protecting my child anymore.
It might even be putting my unborn child in danger.