Page 30 of The First Cut
Hannibal’s lying on his stomach, the blanket pooled at his waist, showing the tanned expanse of his back and the large Ravens Soul emblem inked into his skin.
I swallow and walk over to the chair, sitting down gently before tucking my feet up into the seat. I use the T-shirt to cover my knees and rest my head on the arm of the chair, keeping thecold cloth pressed to my face. Just as I’m starting to drift off again, I feel hands on me, jolting me awake.
“It’s just me,” Hannibal says softly before scooping me up and laying me back on the bed.
He pulls the blanket back over both of us before wrapping his arm around me once more, his breath warm against my neck as I try to calm my racing heart and force myself to relax.
“Just sleep, Lola. I have a feeling we’re gonna be in for a rough couple of weeks.”
Of course it’s going to be rough. I could have told him that myself. But as I think it, I feel my eyes drooping, and even though I know I should fight it, I let myself drift off into oblivion.
When I wake up again, I’m alone. The muted early morning light spilling through the blinds tells me it’s the next day. I’ve slept for longer than I have in years, but I don’t feel any better. If anything, I feel worse, but then everything feels worse after a beating. My face feels like it’s been stomped on, and there's a manic monkey playing cymbals in my brain.
I contemplate getting up, but I really don’t want to. It's warm and safe under the covers, and I can almost pretend I’m still a teenager whose biggest worry is what to wear to prom. But in the end, my bladder makes the decision for me. I take my aching body and head into the bathroom to relieve myself. Once there, I strip off my T-shirt and climb into a warm shower, careful to keep my face clear of the spray. That would hurt like a bitch.
I get washed before wrapping a towel around myself. Using one of the spare toothbrushes, I brush my teeth, and ignore the train wreck in the mirror, which looks like she’s been in a fight with Mike Tyson and lost. Once I’m done, I pull my hair back and braid it before tossing it over my shoulder.
I walk back into the bedroom and put on the boxers I found yesterday, along with a black sweatshirt I find in the closet. Itdoesn’t matter how I look if I’m not leaving the room—but I do need to be comfortable.
When I found out I was pregnant, I read up on what to expect when expecting and realized most of it was more of a guideline than a rulebook. There are no hard and fast rules—what affects one woman might not bother the next. For me, I was lucky that morning sickness had been minimal.
What I’ve struggled with is exhaustion. I’d hoped it would get better after my first trimester, but it didn’t. I don’t know if it’s because I’m so stressed all the time or because I don’t eat enough. Either way, I’ve turned into the nap queen. If I don’t get at least one in, I wander aimlessly, like a zombie looking for brains. But as much as I’d love to go right back to sleep, I need to try and break the habit before the baby gets here.
I look around for something to do and spot my bag on the floor beside the door. I walk over and ease myself down with a soft groan. I rummage around in it and smile when I pull out the book I’ve been reading. I also take the squashed sleeve of crackers I have in there and the lukewarm bottle of water and carry them over to the bed. I climb back in and shift around until I find a comfortable position before cracking open the book and losing myself for a while.
I don’t know how long I read for, but I’m so absorbed in the story that I’m oblivious to everything around me. That’s what usually happens when I fall into a book. I don’t even hear the lock click, so when the door swings open without warning, I shriek like a banshee.
Hannibal stands in the doorway with a tray in his hands and a smile on his face. I swear, for a moment, I see lust in his eyes—but when I blink, it’s gone. “I brought you something to eat,” he says, trying not to laugh.
I feel my face heat, and I look away, suddenly very aware of how ridiculous I must’ve looked shrieking like that.
Placing the book down on the bed beside me, I stare at the tray as my stomach growls loudly.
He curses as he kicks the door closed behind him and walks over, placing the tray on my lap. “I should’ve brought you up something earlier. I’m not used to taking care of people,” he admits.
I barely hear him, my focus on the food in front of me. There’s a plate piled high with sandwiches, a bowl of fruit salad, a chocolate chip cookie, and what smells like a mug of hot chocolate.
“No, this is perfect. I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat it all, though.” I swallow the lump in my throat and reach for a grape, popping it in my mouth. I bite down and groan at the taste.
“Just eat what you can. You could stand to gain a little more weight. I’m pretty sure you’re even smaller now than when I first me you—and you weren’t pregnant then.”
“I could shop for food back then.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I snap my mouth shut as he sits on the edge of the bed.
“So you haven’t been starving yourself on purpose?” he asks.
“No. I just can’t eat what I don’t have.”
He starts to say something else, but there's a knock on the door. Sighing, he stands up and heads for the door. “I’ll be back later—with some prenatal vitamins and a shake to help you gain a few pounds.”
I take a bite of my sandwich and nod.
“When I get back, we’re gonna talk,” he says, then leaves, locking the door behind him.
I pause mid-chew, feeling my stomach churn for a whole different reason. Talking never gets me anywhere––it’s like smashing my head against a brick wall. I might be in a different clubhouse, in a different biker’s bed, but I know everyone here’s already made up their minds about me.
Nobody’s going to listen to me. Least of all Hannibal.
Chapter Nine
