Page 23 of Price of Angels

But she shook her head. “I feel fine. Normal for a pregnant woman, anyway. It’s just…after what happened last time. I’m afraid to make too many plans, you know?” Her eyes grew shiny, bright under the overhead light. “I get scared when we talk about what we’ll do after he’s born. Because what if…” She didn’t finish, and he was glad for it.

Mercy glanced at the stove; the food could sit for a moment. Then he gathered his wife into his arms, hugged her close, tucked her head into his chest. “It’s going to be fine,” he said, stroking a hand down the slender ridge of her backbone, though inside, he felt the tiny tremors of anxiety. “It’s different this time.”

Her flour-dusted hands latched onto his shirt. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Yes,fillette.” Because this time, he knew about the tiny life, and he loved it fiercely already, and he’d lop the head off any son of a bitch who dared to threaten the things that were his.

Holly felt the biggest surge of relief when she saw Michael come in. All day, she’d felt like a tightly stretched rubber band, plucked hard by every little sound and shift of the light across the floorboards. Laying eyes on his familiar, impassable face released some of the tension inside her, eased her breathing. There was no question in her now: she would make her offer again, and she’d convince him to accept, no matter how cold he was. After all, he’d come by her place last night. That didn’t constitute indifference on his part.

She went to the bar first, as Michael settled into his favorite booth. Matt poured the double Jack neat while she waited. He was looking at her like he was afraid she’d fall apart, but she was better now. Michael just being in the bar boosted her spirits tenfold.

Drink in hand, she leaned into the kitchen, to tell Hollis-the-three-hundred-pound-cook to fix up a plate of fried chicken tenders and mashed potatoes with brown gravy.

Then she went to Michael.

Holly almost dropped the whiskey when she saw that he hadn’t brought a book tonight. In her memory, he’d never sat down to dinner without some sort of reading material.

His eyes came straight up to her face as she slid into the booth and set his drink before him. Amber, deep, impossible to read, but intense. Fixed to her like there was nothing else in the world to look at. Like she was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

“I put your dinner order in,” she said, voice a little breathless. “Fried chicken and potatoes okay? It’s the special.”

He nodded. “It’s fine.”

Holly inhaled deeply, and exhaled in a fluttering rush.

Michael wrapped a hand around his drink, but didn’t lift it. “You changed your mind,” he said, levelly. “About telling me.”

She nodded. “They were in here today.”

A shift in his face, a faint strike of surprise in one eyebrow.

“And I don’t know what else to do,” she went on, “except tell you.”

“Okay.” He sipped his Jack.

She sighed, feeling small and caved-in, desperate and afraid. Less afraid, with him, but still in fear of rejection. “I’ll get your food, and then I’ll start.”

“You’re the sergeant at arms. It says so on your vest thing.” She gestured to the patch affixed to his chest.

“Yeah.” He stirred the gravy into his potatoes and looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to get to the point. He’d never looked at her so much before, making eye contact for long, lingering moments.

“Well.” She kept taking deep breaths, fighting off her nerves. She leaned low against the table, not suggestively, just keeping low and quiet, so as not to draw attention to them. “I don’t know that much about biker…”

“Clubs,” he supplied.

“Right. Clubs. But from what I do know, there’s guys in the club, like the sergeant at arms, who do…some bad things. For the club.”

She winced and he didn’t twitch as he cut into the chicken tenderloins.

“Guys who…” Her voice was just a breath. “Kill people.”

Michael chewed his bite of food without expression, swallowed, sipped his drink, and then spoke. “The sergeant at arms of an MC is a member who maintains order among his brothers at meetings; he keeps the peace within the club; he protects his president and does what’s asked of him,” he said, as if he were reading a definition from a book.

Holly felt desperation working in her blood, but forced it down, telling herself to be patient. “That sounds like a big responsibility.”

He nodded, one sharp motion of his head.

“Is the sergeant at arms always on the clock?” she asked. “Or does he get time to himself?”

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