Page 87 of Claimed By the Bikers
“No.” She pulls her hand free. “I’m not running while you and your brothers fight for our home.”
“You’re pregnant. This isn’t just about you anymore.”
“Exactly. This is about our child’s future. About the family we’re building. About the community we’re part of.” She stands, wrapping the sheet around herself. “I’m not letting some cartel soldiers drive me away from the life I chose.”
“They specifically want you dead. You killed one of their own.”
“And if I run, what message does that send? That we can be intimidated? That threatening pregnant women is an effective tactic?” She shakes her head. “I won’t give them that victory.”
“This isn’t about victory or messages. This is about keeping you and our baby alive.”
“Our baby will be safer in a world where we don’t back down from bullies.” Her green eyes blaze with the same fire I saw when she destroyed her FBI badge. “I can fight. I can protect myself and our child.”
“Not against twenty cartel soldiers.”
“Not alone. But with you, with Garrett and Silas, with the community that’s accepted me as family?” She moves closer, placing her hand over my heart. “Together we can face anything.”
She may be the death of me.
I sigh. “If you stay, you follow orders. No heroics, no unnecessary risks.”
“Agreed.”
“You stay in whatever defensive position we assign you. No arguing about tactics in the middle of a firefight.”
“Understood.”
“And if things go bad, if we tell you to run, you run. No debate, no looking back.”
She hesitates at this last condition.
“For the baby,” I add quietly.
Finally, she nods. “For the baby.”
“I love you,” I tell her, words I don’t say often enough.
“I love you too.”
“No matter what happens?—”
“Nothing’s going to happen,” she insists. “We’re going to win this fight, raise this baby, and build the life we’ve been planning.”
27
EMBER
Ten weeks now,and my body still hasn’t figured out that throwing up first thing every day isn’t helping anybody. I manage to keep the dry toast down while sipping ginger tea, but everything tastes like cardboard.
Lizzy’s already in the restaurant when I arrive, setting up tables with so much energy that it makes me tired just watching her.
“You look rough,” she says without looking up from arranging salt shakers.
“Thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear.”
“Sorry. I meant tired. You look tired.” She glances at me with concern. “The morning sickness still bad?”
“Getting better. I think. Maybe.” I collapse into a booth. “How are you doing? Haven’t seen much of you lately.”
