Page 72 of Claimed By the Bikers

“You think you can just disappear and start a new life with these criminals? The Bureau will never stop looking for you.”

“Let them look.”

“You’re making the biggest mistake of your life.”

“No. The biggest mistake of my life was trusting you.”

Ben stares at me for a long moment, then spits his gum onto the ground. “Load up,” he orders the agents still loyal to him. “We’re leaving.”

As the remaining federal vehicles pull away, silence settles over our compound. Dust drifts across the parking lot where my badge lies crumpled in the gravel, and I can hear birds singing in the pine trees like nothing world changing just happened.

“Well,” Atlas says finally, “that went better than expected. Nobody died.”

“Yet,” Garrett adds.

22

GARRETT

The engines fadeinto 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.