Page 52 of Mortify

Every car that follows too long could be him.

By the time I park, I'm wound tight as a spring.

I knock our pattern—three short, two long so she knows it's me.

"You're back," she breathes when she opens the door, relief clear in her eyes. Then she notices the blood on my cut. "Oh Gods, are you hurt?"

"Not mine," I assure her, stepping inside. "Rati caught one, but he'll be okay."

She locks the door behind me—all three locks, good girl—then turns to study me. "What happened?"

"Got him. The compound, his drugs, his men. But the Patriot himself..." I shake my head.

"He got away again?"

"Yeah. But we hurt him bad. Destroyed millions in product, killed his security. He's hurting right now, for sure."

"But still out there." She wraps her arms around herself. "Still a danger to the club."

"Hey." I move closer, gentle. "He's not thinking about you. He's thinking about survival."

But I don't tell her about Dylan.

I don't tell her that her ex was there, watching, documenting.

She's got enough to worry about with the baby, and the last thing she needs is more stress.

"You need to eat," I say, changing the subject. "When's the last time you kept something down?"

"This morning. Had some crackers."

"That's not enough. You're growing a person in there."

She laughs, but it's weak. "The person doesn't want food. The person wants to make me miserable."

"Come on." I guide her to the kitchen. "Let me make you something bland. Cinnamon toast maybe?"

"You don't have to?—"

"Yeah, I do." I'm already pulling out bread. "This is what we do now, remember? I take care of you. Both of you."

She watches me work, something soft in her expression. "This is weird."

"Which part?"

"All of it. You being here, taking care of me. Pretending..." She trails off.

"Who says we're pretending?" I ask, keeping my voice light. "I'm here. Taking care of you. That's real."

"You know what I mean."

I turn to face her. "Do I? Because from where I'm standing, nothing about this feels fake. You're carrying a baby. I'm claiming it. We're together. Where's the fakeness in it?"

She bites her lip, that thing she does when she's thinking too hard. "It's just happening so fast."

"Life happens fast, sweetheart," I point out. "One day you think you know how things will go, next day everything's different."

"Is that what this is for you? Everything being different?"

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