Page 25 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

GARRETT

The engines fade into the hills, leaving nothing but dust.

“But we can agree that it was dramatic,” Silas says, lighting a cigarette. “Think they’ll be back?”

“Ben will,” Atlas replies, checking his rifle before chafing it. “Men like him don’t let go of perceived slights.”

Silas smirks. “Let him come. We’ll be ready.”

I’m not really listening to their discussion. I’m watching Ember, noting the way she’s standing too straight, holding herself too carefully.

“You okay, lass?” I ask.

“Fine. Just tired.” She runs a hand through her hair, and I catch the slight tremor in her fingers. “It’s been a long morning.”

“Aye, it has. Why don’t you go inside and get some rest? We can handle the cleanup.”

“I’m not an invalid, Garrett. I can help—”

She stops mid-sentence, face going pale. For a moment, she looks like she might say something else, but then she turns abruptly and heads for the restaurant at a pace that’s almost running.

I give her about thirty seconds before following.

The sound of retching echoes from the bathroom. I find her on her knees in front of the toilet, one hand braced against the wall, the other gripping the porcelain like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

“Hey,” I say softly, moving in beside her. “It’s alright.”

“I’m fine,” she gasps between heaves. “Just…stress. From the FBI thing.”

“I know.” I gather her hair back from her face, holding it gently while her body rebels against whatever is causing this. “Just let it happen.”

She’s sick for another few minutes, bringing up what looks like mostly bile and coffee. When the worst of it passes, she slumps back against the bathroom wall, looking pale and exhausted.

“Better?” I ask, offering her a towel.

“Yeah. Thanks.” She wipes her mouth, then looks at me with embarrassed defiance. “Don’t make a big deal out of this. It’s just stress.”

“Course it is.”

But I know better. I’ve seen this before and felt the same helpless concern while someone I love dealt with morning sickness. The timing, the sudden onset, the way she’s been looking tired lately, even when she gets plenty of sleep.

Sarah used to get sick exactly like this when she was carrying Katie.

“Come on,” I tell Ember, helping her to her feet. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

“I don’t need to lie down—”

“Humor me.”

I guide her through the destroyed restaurant, past overturned tables and bullet-scarred walls, across the yard to our house. She protests weakly the whole way, insisting she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but she doesn’t pull away when I steady her on the steps.

Our bed is unmade, clothes scattered. We have more important things to worry about than housekeeping. I pull back the covers and gesture toward the mattress.

“In.”

“Garrett, I’m not sick—”

“In.”

She gives me a look that could melt steel, but she climbs into bed anyway, settling back against the pillows with obvious reluctance. “Happy now?”

“Getting there.” I pull the blanket up to her chin, ignoring her eye roll. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”

The kitchen is clustered, but I manage to find what I need. Chamomile tea, the same blend I used to keep stocked for Sarah. Honey to settle her stomach, ginger for the nausea. Simple remedies that probably won’t cure anything but might help her feel a little better.

Sarah would get sick every morning for the first three months, I remember as I wait for the water to boil. It was like clockwork. Green around the gills, swearing she was fine, then spending twenty minutes in the bathroom proving otherwise.

For years after, thinking about Sarah’s pregnancy was like pressing on a wound that never quite healed. The way she glowed even when she was miserable, how she’d rest her hand on her stomach and talk to Katie before she was even showing.

But today, watching Ember fight the same battle Sarah fought, I don’t feel the usual stab of grief.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, I warn myself, pouring hot water over the tea bag.

Could be stress. Could be something she ate. Could be any number of things that aren’t what you think it is.

When I return to the bedroom, Ember’s lying exactly where I left her, staring at the ceiling.

“Feeling any better?” I ask, setting the tea on the nightstand.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“And I’m making tea anyway.” I sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch but not crowding her. “Chamomile and ginger. Good for settling stomachs.”

“I don’t have an upset stomach.”

“Course you don’t.”

She turns her head to look at me, and I can see her trying to figure out what I’m thinking. “You’re being weird.”

“How so?”

“Hovering. Fussing. Acting like I’m fragile.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “Why?”

Because you remind me of my wife when she was carrying our daughter.

“Because you just faced down the FBI, threw away your career, and then got sick in our bathroom,” I say instead. “Seems like a good time for a little fussing.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can. Doesn’t mean you have to.”

She studies my face for a long moment, and I wonder what she sees there. “You’re not going to make me drink that tea, are you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But it might help.”

“With what? I’m not sick.”

“With the stress,” I say diplomatically.

She sighs, but she reaches for the cup anyway. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

I watch her sip the tea, noting how she cradles the warm mug in both hands. Sarah used to do the same thing, claiming the heat helped with the nausea even when the tea itself made her queasy.

“This is good,” Ember says, sounding surprised.

“Family recipe. My grandmother used to make it for anyone who wasn’t feeling well.”

“She must’ve taken care of a lot of people.”

“Aye, she did. Raised eight children and never lost her temper once, according to my mother.”

“Eight children?” Ember’s eyes widen. “How did she manage that?”

“Same way any mother manages, I suppose. One day at a time, with a lot of patience and a sense of humor.”

“Did you want a big family? Before…”

“We talked about it,” I admit. “Sarah wanted at least three kids.”

“What did you want?”

I think about that for a moment, remembering conversations we had in bed on lazy Sunday mornings, planning a future that would never happen. “I wanted whatever made Sarah happy. But yeah, I liked the idea of a house full of kids. Chaos and laughter and tiny shoes everywhere.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Does it?”

She nods, still cradling the tea mug. “Peaceful. Normal.”

“Not words usually associated with our lifestyle.”

“No, but…” She trails off, looking thoughtful. “I don’t know. There’s something appealing about the idea of normal domestic chaos instead of the shoot-out-with-cartels kind of chaos.”

I watch her take another sip of tea, and for a moment I can almost see it—her belly round with pregnancy, moving carefully around the house, complaining about swollen feet and back pain while I hover and drive her crazy with overprotectiveness. The image is so clear, so perfect.

“Garrett?” Her voice pulls me back to the present. “You okay? You looked…far away for a minute.”

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

About the possibility that you might be carrying our child.

“Nothing,” I say instead. “Don’t worry about me.”

She finishes the tea and hands me the empty mug. “Thank you. For taking care of me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“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.