Page 75 of Claimed By the Bikers
“I should get up. I need to help with the restaurant cleanup?—”
“You should rest. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“No, but I’ve got experience with people who need taking care of.” I lean over to kiss her forehead, breathing in the scent of her hair. “Sleep for a bit. The restaurant will still be there when you wake up.”
“What if I can’t sleep?”
“Then lie there and let your body recover from the morning we’ve had. Either way, you’re staying in this bed for the next few hours.”
“Garrett—”
“No arguments. You took on the FBI this morning. You’ve earned some rest.”
She settles back against the pillows, and I can see her trying to decide whether to keep fighting me on this. Finally, she sighs. “Fine. But only for an hour.”
“We’ll see.”
I’m almost to the door when she calls my name. “Garrett?”
“Aye?”
“The tea really did help. Thank you.”
“Anytime, lass. Get some rest.”
I close the door behind me and lean against it for a moment. All the signs point to something that could change everything.
Or nothing.
But if Ember is carrying our child—mine, or Atlas’s, or Silas’s, doesn’t matter because we’re family—then I want to be ready for it.
I think Sarah would approve. I think she’d want me to be happy.
23
SILAS
The soundof hammers and power tools fills the restaurant as our crew works to repair the damage from the shootout. New windows are going in where bullets shattered the old ones, and fresh drywall covers the holes punched through the walls by automatic weapons.
The work is good—keeps everyone busy, gives us something productive to focus on while we wait for the next move in this chess game we’re all playing.
But Ember’s not focusing on anything.
I watch her from across the dining room, where she’s supposed to be organizing supply lists, noting how she’s been staring at the same piece of paper for ten minutes. There are dark circles under her eyes that suggest she’s not sleeping well.
“Chérie,” I call out, and she startles like I’ve fired a gun.
“What? Sorry, I was just…”
“Thinking too hard.” I cross to where she’s sitting, noting the slight tremor in her hands as she shuffles papers around. “When’s the last time you ate something?”
“I had breakfast.”
“You pushed eggs around your plate for twenty minutes, then fed most of it to the dog next door when you thought no one was watching.”
Her cheeks flush. “I’m not very hungry lately.”
