Page 10 of Welker

Her brain nearly short-circuited. When was the last time anyone—with the exception of when she’d been in life-or-death situations—had inquired as to her well-being? Had cared about her feelings.

Uh… Never?

“Fine, Vestore,” she clipped. And…shit. Why had she gone back to using his last name? She really didn’t know how to act in the face of sincere concern.

He chuckled, finding it funny. “That’s my girl.”

His girl…

A little thrill traveled up Moira’s spine at those words. Not that they meant anything. Welk had to have said it in a way that meant “his teammate” or “his constituent”. There was nothing proprietary about it at all.

Moira shook off her inappropriate thoughts, steeled herself, and with a shrug, gave a final push through her front door.

Well, fuck.

The place was good and truly wrecked.

“Geezus.” Her squad-mate, Sin—short for Sinclair—whistled long and low after following them inside.

“That about says it,” Welker concurred, hissing angrily as his foot came in contact with the remains of an easy chair. “The assholes.” He turned to Moira. “This cements it. You’re not staying here tonight, and you’re not going to a motel,” he growled. “You’re coming to my home and staying with me.”

Moira’s stomach did more of a flip-flop than it had executed when she’d first become aware of her intruders.

Bad idea. Bad.

“Not happening, Vestore,” she returned sharply. “I’ll find a place.”

“You can stay with me,” Sin offered.

Of all the people on SWAT, Moira was closest to calling the tall, upbeat blonde, friend. If having lunch, reluctantly, once or twice made them buddies. But she couldn’t bring danger to Sin’s door. The woman was a single mom of two beautiful girls, the three living with Sin’s mother. Moira would never forgive herself if she led the MC to the neat household of sweet females.

“Appreciate it,” she told Sin, “but it’s not happening. You have family.” That’s all she needed to say.

Sin didn’t look happy, but clearly, she understood.

“Then you can stay with me and Ever,” Mason offered.

Right. Like that was going to happen. There was no way Moira was going to add to the tension in that household, with Everlee less than three months away from delivery.

“With Everlee preggers? A hard, no, boss,” Moira told him, swallowing around a suddenly thickening in her throat as she spotted and picked up the remains of a blown-glass bird she’d splurged on at a local craft fair.

Goddammit. The pretty thing was toast. That would teach her. It had been an impulse buy; one she hadn’t been able to resist while she’d been working a detail.

Birds were one of her few passions, other than watching Boston’s sports teams, and cooking. She fed her feathered friends from multiple feeders, catalogued them year-round, and had even pondered a time or two about getting a cockatiel or a parrot.

It was a good thing she hadn’t. Look what had happened to the glass version.

She dropped the brightly colored trinket back to the floor, trying to tamp down the sudden surge of despondency that threatened to choke her.

She was alone, and in trouble, but what good was it thinking like that?

What she needed, rather than to feel sorry for herself, was a place to stay that wouldn’t endanger anything or anyone.

Welker laid a hand on her arm, shaking her from her thoughts.

“It’s settled then,” he spoke determinedly. “You’re coming home with me.”

CHAPTER FOUR

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