Page 37 of Cipher's Baby Girl
"Yeah, you do," Rash agrees. "But it doesn't have to be tonight."
Before I can respond, Luna appears at our table, her expression excited.
"You have to come back to the dance floor," she insists, grabbing my hand. "The DJ just put on my song!"
I allow her to pull me away, throwing Rash a grateful look over my shoulder. As I follow Luna into the crowd, my mind is still reeling from everything I've learned. But for now, I just dance, oblivious to the approaching storm.
Chapter 15
Cipher
"Sometimes the payoff is worth the risk of taking a chance."
Blade's words echo in my mind as I track Rose through the club's security feed. The resolution isn't optimal, but it’s sufficient to observe her movements on the dance floor of Shadow's Edge.
My fingers move across the keyboard, adjusting camera angles to maintain visual on the primary target. Rose is dancing, her gorgeous body moving beneath pulsing lights. Her dress clings to her curves, revealing more of her body than I've seen since that night when she was beneath me, skin flushed and hair spread across my pillow.
The memory creates an uncomfortable tightness in my chest.
The camera captures men—multiple men—eyeing her with far too much interest.
My jaw tightens, teeth grinding with enough pressure to make the muscle in my cheek spasm. The monitor to my left displays the club's layout with exit routes, security personnel positioning, potential threat vectors—all standard operational awareness. But my attention remains fixed on Rose as her eyes partially close and her head tilts back to expose the delicatecolumn of her throat. Exposing the spot where her pulse jumped beneath my tongue when I licked at her delicate flesh.
Fuck. That dress is practically an engraved invitation for male attention.
The rage that surges through my system is disproportionate to the stimulus. My fingers curl into fists. I stand abruptly, chair sliding back and hitting the wall with enough force to crack the drywall. My heart rate and respiration skyrocket. Adrenaline floods my system in preparation for conflict. Familiar physiological responses. What's unfamiliar is the cause—not tactical necessity but raw, unfiltered emotion.
The rational part of my brain attempts to regain control. Rose is an adult woman. She has every right to dance with whomever she pleases. I have no claim on her.
But the primitive part of my brain—the part that registered her as mine the moment I lifted her from that shipping container—refuses to process this logic.
My motorcycle keys are in my hand before I even make a conscious decision to engage. Watching isn't enough. I need to be there, to place myself between her and these men who can't possibly comprehend her value.
But first, she’s too exposed. Too visible. Drawing too much male attention. She needs more clothing. I need something to cover her.
I move through the compound with precision, avoiding the few brothers present. Rose's room is on the second floor, east wing.
Her scent hits me the moment I enter—vanilla and lavender—and triggers an immediate physiological response as blood redirects to my groin.
I stride to the closet and begin searching for appropriate cover garments—a jacket, a blanket, a motherfucking trench coat, anything that will conceal all that smooth, creamy, perfectflesh. I find a long, fuzzy, purple bathrobe. Perfect. I yank it off the hanger and as I move toward the door, my boot connects with a small trash can, tipping it over. Items spill across the floor—tissues, a gum wrapper, a small plastic device.
Carelessly, I sweep the trash back into the can until realization hits with the force of a nuclear bomb. I freeze, staring down at the small plastic stick in my hand. Two distinct lines are visible in the result window.
A positive pregnancy test.
Rose is pregnant.
The realization rewires my entire operational framework in less than a second. Something shifts in my chest—a tectonic movement of priorities, of perspective, of purpose.
I drop to my knees. The positive indicator is unmistakable, stark pink lines against a white background. The manufacturing date on the packaging tells me it’s a recent purchase.
Holy fuck. What does this indicate? I mean, I know what it indicates, but…
Rash?
I contemplate their increasing proximity over recent weeks. The “brotherly” arm around her shoulders. The way she relaxes in his presence.
Evidence reconstructs into a new pattern with devastating clarity. My fingers close around the plastic test, crushing it as the realization forms.
