Page 29 of Cipher's Baby Girl
Angel takes the seat across from me, reaching for my hand. "He left about an hour ago with the Renegade Kings. He’ll be staying with them in Detroit."
Each word is a knife, twisting deeper with surgical precision. The air leaves my lungs in a painful rush.
"For how long?"
"A month," she says gently. "Maybe more, depending on how things play out with whatever club business is going on there.”
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I bite down hard on my inner cheek, using the sharp pain to ground myself, to hold back the flood threatening to overwhelm me.
The memory of his tenderness flashes through my mind—the way he kissed every inch of my skin, the way he watched my face when he entered me, the way he held me afterward like I was something irreplaceable.
How could I have been so stupid? So naive? I gave him my body, my trust, and my heart—and none of it meant anything to him.
I struggle to breathe through the pain. The physical reminder of last night—the tenderness between my legs, the marks on my neck—now feels like mockery. Evidence of my foolishness.
“He didn’t even say goodbye?” Angel seems shocked.
I try to speak, to answer her, but a sob escapes instead. Angel pulls me into her arms, her embrace firm and comforting.
“Oh, Rose, I’m so sorry,” she soothes, stroking my hair. “He’s such an idiot.”
I cry against her shoulder, grateful for the simple human contact, the unconditional comfort.
I don't even know how I feel beyond all the pain. How do I navigate this complicated tangle of emotions? Part of me wantsto never see him again. Part of me wants to be here waiting for him when he returns. Part of me wants to shoot him in the dick.
I know one thing, though. I deserve to be treated better than discarded garbage.
Chapter 11
Rose
Six Weeks Later
The bile rises in my throat again, a now-familiar burn that has me scrambling from my bed to the small ensuite bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before heaving violently, my body expelling what little remains in my stomach. The cold porcelain against my palms grounds me as wave after wave of nausea crashes through me, the acid taste lingering in my mouth long after there's nothing left to bring up.
It's been weeks since that night with Cipher. Six weeks, to be exact. Fortunately, he’s been gone most of that time, having just returned last night from some kind of club business with the Renegade Kings, so at least I’ve been spared his glowering gazes, or having to pretend not to notice how fast he leaves rooms I enter.
I’ve spent six weeks trying to convince myself that what happened meant nothing, that I'm over him, that my heart isn't still shattered into pieces too small to ever reassemble.
And now this.
I rinse my mouth and splash cold water on my face, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I already know what I'll see—paleskin, shadowed eyes, a girl trying desperately to hold herself together while her body betrays her in the most fundamental way possible. My breasts ache constantly now, tender and swollen. Certain smells—coffee, fried food, cigarette smoke—send me running for the nearest bathroom. Exhaustion drags at me like lead weights attached to every limb, making even the simplest tasks feel monumental.
I may be naive, but I’m not stupid. All the signs point to one terrifying possibility.
A knock at my door startles me from my thoughts. When I open the door, Rash's eyebrows immediately furrow with worry. "Holy shit, little sis, you look like death warmed over." The blunt assessment would be offensive from anyone else, but from him, it's just honest concern wrapped in his usual lack of filter.
"Thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear," I attempt a smile, but it feels more like a grimace. I sink onto the edge of my bed, suddenly exhausted again. "Just haven't been feeling great."
Rash studies me for a long moment, his expression shifting from concern to something more calculating. He leans against my dresser, arms crossed over his chest. "How long?"
"What?"
"How long have you been throwing up every morning? And don't bullshit me. I heard you from the hallway."
I look down at my hands, twisting nervously in my lap, picking at a hangnail until it bleeds slightly. "A couple weeks, maybe."
"Morning sickness?" he asks quietly, the words hanging in the air between us.
