Page 47 of Ginger

I felt the tension crawl up my spine, wrap around my throat. Detroit wasn't just the club's Sergeant-at-Arms; he was the man who handled problems when they needed handling permanently. His showing up alone, unannounced, with that particular look in his eye—it wasn't good.

"What's going on?" I asked, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

Detroit moved further into the room, his heavy boots silent on the carpet. He had a predator's way of moving, economical and purposeful. He stopped a few feet away, positioned so he could see both of us and the door.

"We need to have a serious talk," he said, his deep voice rumbling in the small space.

KiKi made a small sound, something between a whimper and a gasp. I forced myself not to look at her, keeping my eyes on Detroit instead. Show weakness to a man like him, and you became prey.

"About?" I kept my tone even, though my heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it.

Detroit's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "About your friend here, and the package she's holding that belongs to the club."

KiKi's breathing had gone shallow, her chest rising and falling in rapid, jerky movements. I could feel her panic radiating outward like heat from an engine about to blow.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, the words tumbling out too fast. "I haven't taken anything from the club, I swear to God."

Detroit's not-quite-smile didn't waver. "Didn't say you took it. Said you're holding it. But that's interesting that your mind went straight to theft." He took another step forward, and KiKi shrank back into the sofa cushions. "Almost like you've got a guilty conscience."

I moved slightly, placing myself between them without making it obvious. "Whatever this is about, I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation."

Detroit's eyes flicked to me, assessing. "You may have old lady status now, Ginger, but this isn’t your fight."

"I'm just saying we should talk this through," I replied carefully. "Like reasonable people."

Detroit laughed, a sound like gravel in a blender. "Reasonable. Yeah, that's what the club's known for." He reached inside his cut and pulled out a small piece of paper. "Found this under your mattress, KiKi. Care to tell me about the baby you’re hiding?"

The room went silent save for KiKi's increasingly panicked breathing. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones. It didn’t seem like Vegas or Houston had told him. Why had he gone snooping through KiKi’s things? Were the other club members suspicious as well?

"I—I didn't—" KiKi stammered, her face now ashen. "I wasn’t hiding it. Vegas and Houston know. It’s why they let me work behind the bar. Just until I can find a job and place to live."

"Save it," Detroit cut her off. "You think I’m going to believe that bullshit? Not to mention, I heard you mention Vegas’ name. Something tells me that bun in your oven belongs to him. That something he’s aware of?"

Detroit studied KiKi for a long moment, his face unreadable. The silence stretched, thick with threat and possibility. Finally, he nodded, once. "Fine. Let’s say I believe that Vegas and Houston are aware of the situation. Did you tell him he’s the father?”

“No,” she said softly. “Please, Detroit. He can’t find out!”

KiKi was shaking now, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. I sat beside her, took her hand in mine. It was cold, clammy.

"Tell me the truth," I whispered, low enough that Detroit couldn't hear.

“Only one who came inside me without protection was Vegas. I can’t say one hundred percent for sure it’s his, but… he’s the most likely to be the father.”

I squeezed her hand, feeling the bones shift beneath her skin. "We'll figure this out," I promised, not believing it myself.

KiKi's laugh was hollow, haunted. "No one figures their way out of the hole I'm in, Ginger. No one. Vegas doesn’t want kids. He’s always made that clear to each of us. He’ll think I tried to trap him."

Detroit's expression darkened. Clearly he’d heard us. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the leather of his cut creaking with the movement. "So it is his."

"She doesn't know for sure," I said quickly. "And it doesn't matter who the father is. What matters is—"

"What matters," Detroit cut in, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble, "is that Vegas has a right to know if there's a chance that kid is his."

The room felt suddenly smaller, the walls pressing in. I could hear the muffled sounds of the main room below—music thumping, voices raised in laughter—but it felt like we were in another world entirely, sealed away in this pressure cooker of secrets and lies.

"Please," KiKi whispered, her mascara running in dark rivulets down her cheeks. "You know what he'll do. Right now, he just knows I’m pregnant. He gave me a month to find a way to leave without ending up on the street. But if he finds out, then..."

Detroit's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. For all his brutality, I knew he had his own code. The club's rules were clear—the Dark Wrath owned the women who worked for them, body and soul. Getting pregnant was a betrayal that wouldn't be forgiven easily. Especially when that baby belonged to the club president.

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