Page 42 of Cipher's Baby Girl
"She's pregnant," I say, the words strange on my tongue. "It's mine."
Ghost's expression shifts through several emotions.
"I've been a fool," I admit, the confession costing me more than any physical pain could. "I pushed her away when I should have been protecting her."
"You can make it right," Blade says, clasping my shoulder firmly. "But first, we get her back."
I nod, feeling an unexpected tightness in my throat. "We get her back. And then Richard Hartley pays for ever touching what's mine."
The hunter inside me growls in anticipation, already tasting blood.
"I'm coming, Baby Girl," I whisper. “I’m coming for you. And this time, I'm not letting go."
Chapter 18
Rose
The taste of copper fills my mouth as consciousness returns in sickening waves. My eyelids feel weighted, refusing to open fully. The first thing I register is a bone-deep chill seeping through the thin fabric of my dress and into my skin.
"Finally awake, princess?" Richard's voice, familiar and loathsome, cuts through the fog in my brain.
I force my eyes open, blinking against harsh fluorescent light. The room comes into focus gradually—rough wooden walls, a filthy kitchenette in one corner, threadbare furniture. A cabin of some sort. My wrists are bound with zip ties, the plastic cutting into my skin when I instinctively try to move my hands.
"Where am I?" My voice emerges as a croak, my throat parched.
Richard sits in a rickety chair across the room, a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. His thinning hair is greasier than I remember, his paunch more pronounced beneath a stained t-shirt. But his eyes remain the same—cruel, calculating, assessing me as an object rather than a person.
"My hunting cabin," he says, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "Nobody for miles. Just you and me...for now."
For now. The words send ice through my veins as I understand their implication.
"Why?" I ask, though I already know the answer. "Why did you take me?"
His laugh is ugly, phlegmy from decades of smoking. "You're my property, girl. Always have been. That biker trash had no right to take what's mine."
"I'm not yours," I say, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice. "I never was."
Richard's face darkens, his features contorting with familiar rage. He stands, crossing the room in three quick strides. His backhand catches me across the cheek, snapping my head to the side. The pain blooms hot, a reminder of countless similar blows throughout my childhood.
"Still got that smart mouth, I see." He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. His thumb digs into the spot he just struck, making me wince. His stale breath, reeking of alcohol, washes over me in nauseating waves. "The Shadow Reapers might've filled your head with ideas, but you're still the same worthless little bitch I raised."
I say nothing, letting him see only blank compliance in my eyes while my mind races. I need to stay calm. Need to think. Need to protect my baby.
Thoughts of my unborn child send a surge of fierce protectiveness through me that overshadows my fear. My hand twitches with the instinct to shield my stomach, but I force it still. Richard can't know. If he realizes I'm pregnant...
"Here's how this is gonna go," Richard continues, releasing my chin to take another drag from his cigarette. "You're gonna be real sweet to me tonight. Real accommodating." His eyes travel down my body, lingering on the places where the dress clings to my curves. "Show me some gratitude for all those years I put a roof over your head."
The implication turns my stomach, bile rising in my throat.
"And tomorrow," he continues, oblivious to my revulsion, "we meet my business associate.
"Nobody will pay for damaged goods," I say, desperate to dissuade him from what he's planning tonight. He doesn’t know I’m no longer a virgin, and I have no qualms about lying to him. "You'll get more if I'm...intact."
Richard's eyes narrow, considering. "Maybe. But what they don’t know won’t hurt them, and after eight years of putting up with your ungrateful ass, I think I deserve a test drive before handing over the keys." He takes a final drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the arm of my chair, inches from my bound hands. The smell of burning fabric mingles with the acrid tobacco scent. "Don't worry, I'll be gentle. Wouldn't want to lower your market value."
He walks back to his chair, reaching for another beer from a warm six-pack on the floor. The momentary reprieve gives me a chance to assess my surroundings more carefully.
Single room cabin. One door, likely locked. Two windows—one behind me, one to my left. Both are small, but possibly large enough to squeeze through. Richard's keys dangle from his belt loop. A hunting rifle leans against the wall near his chair. A small door stands ajar in the corner. It must be a bathroom.
