Page 33 of Welker

She took the stairs two at a time with Welker on her heels, and the first thing they saw when they got to the top of the landing, was the bright red paint outside her bedroom.

Narcs die, the messy letters stated.

Moira grunted, then gave a pained chuckle. “Huh. At least that’s only seven letters to scrub off. Imagine if they’d written ‘snitches get stitches’,” she attempted to joke.

Welker nodded. He’d heard the bitterness in her tone.

They stepped over the remains of her bedside table in the hall, and entered her bedroom.

You’ll die, bitch, was written above what was left of her headboard.

They already knew her gutted mattress was out on the lawn, but the boxspring had found an interesting perch. It had been used as a battering ram, sitting half inside and half outside her now smashed, over-sized, double-hung windows, no doubt letting any flying bug in the vicinity have easy access.

As for all Moira’s clothing, it had been amassed in a pile in the center of the room. Welker could see it was everything she owned because the closet was devoid of anything hanging, and her drawers were all emptied and overturned. What soft-goods hadn’t been ripped apart, had red paint poured all over them, and—he sniffed sparingly—had been doused with urine, if his nose didn’t lie.

Clearly, nothing would be salvageable.

Of course, upon closer inspection, the amassed clothing was a plethora of multi-colored sweats, and serviceable, cotton undergarments. Welker didn’t see a single dress in the heap, nor any fancy shoes among the sneakers and boots that had been added to the horrendous butchery.

“Looks like everything here can be added to the dumpster,” Moira stated, pragmatically, but Welk saw her bottom lip twitching slightly, telling him she was more upset than she was letting on. And who wouldn’t be? This was an invasion of her home, her privacy, and the MC had made it as personal as they could.

“I’ll get some more hands up here, and we can start throwing things out the windows,” Welker sighed, because what else could he do? He wanted nothing more than to hug Moira and console her, but he wasn’t sure how she’d take it. He settled for giving her one more comforting pat to her back before he started to turn away, but surprising the hell out of him, she grabbed onto his arm, preventing him from leaving.

“Welk?” Her normally strong voice broke, and before he could even register what was happening, she’d thrown herself against him, her head smushed into his chest, her body shuddering.

Welker didn’t hesitate. He put his arms around her and drew her in tight, lowering his lips to the crown of her head. “I’m here for you, Moira. I’ll help you get through this.”

Her words came out choked where her mouth lay against his flannel. “I know you will, Welker, but…I don’t understand why? I’ve always been…standoffish with you. Why is it that you’re being so nice to me?”

Now might not be the time, but Welker needed Moira to know she was more to him than just a pain-in-the-ass teammate.

“Because you’re special, Moira,” he told her honestly. “You’re always there for everyone, and never ask for anything in return. You’ve been a pillar of strength on the team; whenever there’s conflict, you iron things out without ruffling any feathers. I can’t tell you the number of times when you’re not around that I’ve ask myself, ‘what would Moira do’, when I’m faced with an untenable situation.”

Moira sniffed against his shirt-front. “That’s probably the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me,” she admitted in a small, damp voice.

“Well, get used to it,” Welker said gruffly, not liking that she’d been underappreciated for what he guessed was her entire life. “Because I plan on letting you know a lot more, how much you mean to me…uh, the team,” he quickly amended, not wanting to scare her away. “You deserve it, Moira. You’re a really good person.”

The warmth of the woman in his arms was hitting Welker, hard. Not in his cock, but smack dab in his gut where he’d never experienced it before. There was a connection going on; something he’d never felt while holding any female in the past. Moira was…good. Right.

Going against the calculatedness he’d used a time or two during a clinch, Welker was not inclined to take things any further; to let his hands wander, or to seek out her lips.

Yet.

No. Holding her was enough. He felt like he could do it forever.

Footsteps on the stairs had Moira jumping back from him, and Welker immediately missed the feel of her. Before she turned away, regaining her equilibrium, he saw a number of things in her eyes.

One of them was unshed tears.

Fucking tears. It wrenched at his heart in a way female crying never had before, because he knew how much it took for Moira to trust him with her real emotions.

The second thing he saw, was…desire?

Dare he call it that?

Her brown irises had grown darker, rounder, and the interest in them was apparent. But in a blink, that was all disguised as Moira pulled her armor on again to face whoever was close to entering the room.

Welker had about five seconds to talk, and he wasn’t about to let the opportunity go.

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