Page 5

Chapter 5

Elle

SIX MONTHS PREGNANT

I jolt awake, my eyes flying open as a wave of queasiness washes over me. The room spins, and I clamp my lips shut, desperately trying to keep the contents of my stomach where they belong. My fingers clutch the sheets, knuckles white with the effort.

Christopher stirs beside me, his warmth a stark contrast to the cold sweat breaking out across my skin. "Elle?" he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

I can't respond. The nausea intensifies, and I know I'm fighting a losing battle. In one swift motion, I throw off the covers and lurch to my feet. The sudden movement sends another wave of dizziness through me, but I push through it, stumbling toward the bathroom.

"Elle!" Christopher's voice is more alert now, tinged with concern.

I barely make it to the toilet before my body betrays me. The acrid taste of bile fills my mouth as I retch, my stomach heaving violently. Tears spring to my eyes, partly from the physical strain and partly from frustration.

My knees ache from them hitting the hard bathroom floor. “This can’t go on anymore.” Christopher is pissed that my doctor hasn’t given anything to help me and pretty much ignores our concerns.

I’m wary of taking any medication unless it’s necessary, but at this point I think it is. I’ve lost weight instead of gaining like I should be.

A damp cloth is placed on the back of my neck, and I moan at the sweet coolness and rest my head on the toilet seat, not even caring if it’s gross.

I’m exhausted from throwing up so much and I barely manage to keep down my prenatal vitamins.

Christopher lifts me from the floor and sets me on the bathroom counter. I don’t want to look at myself in the mirror because my dark circles are horrible and I’m ghostly pale.

“That is it, we are going to another doctor because this is not normal," he demands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He takes my toothbrush, squeezing toothpaste onto it, and gently brushes my teeth. Tears spring to my eyes at his tenderness, the way he cares for me, even in this state.

He is with me every time I'm sick, rubbing my back and holding me. I rinse my mouth out into the sink, and he scoots closer until my forehead is resting in the crook of his neck. His large hands grip my thighs, dragging me flush against him, holding me tight.

"Let me get you into a hot bath, sweet girl. You're shaking." He lifts me off the counter, my legs wrapped around him, not wanting to let him go because of how warm he is. I just want to sleep for a week.

He sets me on the floor and I stand next to the tub, silent, as he fills it with warm water. He undresses me, and I can't fight him on it.

He’s looking at me with such concern, it’s starting to worry me. My doctor said this is normal, that women get sick like this and it will stop once I’m further into my pregnancy.

But, I haven’t yet. It’s been weeks.

He sets me in the tub, making sure I sit down in the water, then leaves the room. I can see him sitting on the bed, on the phone with someone. I lean my head back and relax, feeling so much better now that I'm not shaking so hard.

My heart constricts as I watch Christopher through the open bathroom door, his brow furrowed with worry as he speaks urgently into the phone.

The warm water laps gently against my skin, soothing my aching muscles, but it can't ease the ache in my chest. He deserves so much more than this, more than a partner who can barely function, who needs constant care and attention.

I sink lower into the bath, letting the water cover my shoulders, and close my eyes. Memories of the past few months flash through my mind: Christopher holding my hair back as I vomit, bringing me crackers and ginger ale in bed, researching remedies for morning sickness late into the night.

And yet we still haven’t had sex. The thought brings a fresh wave of guilt crashing over me. I know he understands, knows that I'm simply too exhausted and nauseous most days, but I can't help feeling like I'm failing.

I open my eyes, blinking away tears as I watch him pace the bedroom, still on the phone. His free hand runs through his hair, a gesture I know means he's stressed and worried. What did I ever do to deserve someone like him?

The devotion in his eyes when he looks at me, even now, takes my breath away. It's a look of pure love, untainted by the frustration or resentment I keep fearing I'll see.

Christopher

S omething is wrong. This isn't just morning sickness anymore, it's like Elle is deteriorating before my eyes. Every day, she seems to get worse, and I'm terrified.

I glance at Elle, now peacefully asleep in the bathtub, her face pale and drawn even in slumber. My heart clenches. I can't stand seeing her like this anymore.

With trembling fingers, I dial Brittany, Elle's mom. "Hey, how's it going?" Her cheerful voice does nothing to ease the knot in my stomach.

"Brittany," I say, my voice low and urgent. "I think we need to take Elle to the ER. She's still super sick, and it's only getting worse. This morning, she could barely walk."

I pace the room, running my free hand through my hair. "Her doctor keeps saying it's normal, but it's been weeks of this. I've taken her back over and over, begging for tests, but they just laugh us off." My frustration bleeds into my words. "It's not normal for her to be this sick all day, every day. I thought it was supposed to be morning sickness, not all-day misery."

"We'll be right over," Elle’s dad assures me, his tone serious. I'm grateful we're still in their guest house until our place is finished. At least we're not alone in this.

I hang up and move to the closet, selecting clothes I know Elle finds comfortable: her favorite sweatshirt, a soft sports bra, comfortable underwear, and those leggings she loves. I add a pair of slip-on shoes and place everything on the bed.

Returning to the bathroom, I kneel beside the tub. "Hey, baby," I murmur, gently touching her shoulder.

Elle's eyes flutter open, and my heart breaks a little more. She looks so utterly exhausted, dark circles prominent under her eyes, her skin almost translucent.

"Chris?" she whispers, her voice hoarse.

I swallow hard, forcing a smile. "We're going to get you some help, okay? Your parents are on their way, and we're going to the hospital."

She nods weakly, and I can see the relief in her eyes. She's been trying to be strong for so long, but I know she's scared too.

As I help her out of the tub, I make a silent vow as I support Elle's fragile form. We're going to get to the bottom of this, no matter what it takes. I won't let anyone dismiss her suffering again. Elle deserves better, and I'm determined to make sure she gets it.

A wave of helplessness washes over me. This isn't something I can fight off or protect her from. It's beyond my control, and that realization twists like a knife in my gut. I've never felt so powerless.

"Can you hand me the bodywash?" Elle's soft request breaks through my thoughts. Her voice is barely above a whisper, and I can see the fatigue etched into every line on her face.

Without hesitation, I reach for her favorite bodywash and a soft washcloth. The familiar scent of lavender fills the air as I pour some onto the cloth. Instead of handing it to her, I gently begin washing her back, my movements slow and careful.

Elle's shoulders slump, and I can feel the tension in her muscles. "I feel bad that you're having to take care of me," she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion.

My heart clenches at her words. I tilt her chin up, meeting her tired eyes with mine. "I love you, angel," I say, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Taking care of you is far from a burden. I just want you to be healthy and happy."

I continue washing her, my touch gentle and reverent. There's nothing sexual about it, it's pure care and devotion. I can feel Elle relaxing under my ministrations, her breaths evening out.

As I finish, I set aside the washcloth and carefully lift her out of the tub. She feels so light in my arms, too light for someone who is six months pregnant, and I make a mental note to bring it up with the doctors. I wrap her in a fluffy towel, cradling her close as we make our way to the bedroom.

I sit her on the edge of the bed, my hands lingering on her shoulders. Elle looks up at me, her eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and vulnerability, and it makes my throat tight.

I want to say something, anything to reassure her, but words seem inadequate right now. Instead, I lean in and press another soft kiss to her forehead, hoping my actions speak louder than any words ever could.

I reach for my phone, my fingers trembling slightly as I dial Konrad's number. He's the club doctor, and I trust him implicitly. Maybe he can shed some light on Elle's condition, or at least provide another set of eyes at the ER.

"Hey, Konrad," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Elle's… she's not doing well. We're heading to the ER. Would you be able to meet us there? I'd feel better if you could look over everything."

As I hang up, I turn my attention back to Elle. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, looking small and fragile in just her underwear and sports bra. I grab her favorite sweatshirt and leggings, carefully helping her into them.

"Your parents are here," I tell her softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "They're going with us to the hospital."

Elle nods weakly, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. Without hesitation, I scoop her up in my arms, cradling her against my chest. Her weight, or lack thereof, sends a fresh wave of worry through me.

I make my way down the stairs, each step careful and measured. Elle's head rests against my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck. The beeping of the alarm confirms her parents' arrival.

As I reach the bottom of the stairs, Derek steps forward, concern etched deep in his face. "Let me help her into the truck," he says, his arms outstretched.

Every instinct in me screams to keep Elle close, to protect her, but I know her father is just as worried as I am. With a nod, I carefully transfer Elle into Derek's arms, watching as he cradles his daughter with the same tenderness I feel.

I climb into the back seat of the truck, and Derek gently passes Elle back to me. I settle her next to me, my arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders as I secure her seat belt.

Brittany turns from the front passenger seat, her face a mask of worry as she hands me a blanket and a bottle of water. "Here," she says, her voice tight with emotion. "Keep her warm."

I tuck the blanket around Elle, and she immediately curls into my side, her head finding its familiar spot on my shoulder. The truck lurches forward as Derek pulls out of the driveway, the tires squealing slightly in his haste.

The stillness in the car is heavy, charged with unspoken fears. I catch Brittany's eyes in the rearview mirror, seeing my own worry reflected back at me. Derek's knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight.

As we speed toward the hospital, I press a gentle kiss to Elle's forehead, silently praying that we'll finally get the answers we need.

Along the way, Mason, Reid, Lane, and Smiley pull up beside us, following us to the ER.

I carefully climb out of the truck, Elle cradled in my arms. She's barely stirring, her body limp against my chest. The blanket's wrapped tightly around her, but I can still feel her shaking. Fuck, this isn't good.

A nurse wheels over a bed, and I lay Elle down as gently as I can. Her eyes flutter open, looking up at all of us hovering around her. The fear in her gaze hits me like a punch to the gut.

Reid's hand lands on my shoulder, a silent show of support. I'm grateful for it, 'cause right now, I feel like I might fall apart. The thought of Elle losing the baby or being seriously sick… I can't even go there. It's too fucking much.

They wheel her into a private room in the ER, and suddenly it's packed. My parents are here, standing next to me with matching worried looks. Reid, Mason, and Cole crowd in too, their presence both comforting and overwhelming.

Tiffany comes barreling in, nearly knocking over a nurse in her rush. She squeezes in next to me, her hand finding mine and squeezing tight.

"What's going on?" she whispers, her eyes fixed on Elle's pale form.

I shake my head, words stuck in my throat. "Don't know yet," I manage to croak out.

A doctor comes in, clipboard in hand, and the room falls silent. Elle's eyes find mine, wide and scared. I move closer, taking her hand in mine.

"We're gonna figure this out, baby," I murmur, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "I'm right here. We all are."

The doctor starts asking questions, and I feel like I'm underwater, everything muffled and distant. All I can focus on is Elle's hand in mine, her pulse fluttering weakly against my fingers.

God, please let her be okay. Please.

They run so many tests, I lose count. Konrad's there the whole time, his eyes sharp as he watches every move the doctors and nurses make. I'm grateful for his presence, but it doesn't stop the knot in my gut from tightening with each new test.

Hours crawl by. Elle's been poked and prodded so many times, her arms are starting to look like a junkie's. Every time they stick her with another needle, I have to clench my fists to keep from punching something.

The ultrasound tech comes in, and I hold my breath. The room goes silent as we all stare at the screen, waiting. When the baby's heartbeat fills the room, strong and steady, I almost collapse with relief. Elle's eyes fill with tears, and I squeeze her hand, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

Elle wakes up after dozing off, her eyes blinking slowly as she takes in the crowd still gathered around her bed. A weak smile tugs at her lips. "You guys all didn't have to come out," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Derek runs his hand down her arm, his touch gentle. "You're loved, baby girl," he says, his voice gruff with emotion. "Everyone just wants you to feel better."

I settle into the chair next to her bed, my thumb tracing her cheekbone. The IV in her arm is pumping her full of fluids and nutrients. Already, some color is returning to her cheeks. It's not much, but it's something.

The door swings open, and Konrad walks in with an OB-GYN. I'm on my feet in an instant, my heart pounding. Konrad's face is unreadable, and it's making me fucking nervous.

"What medications has she been taking?" Konrad asks, his voice tight.

I grab Elle's bag, fishing out her prenatal vitamins. "Just these," I say, handing them over. "But she can barely keep them down anymore."

Konrad studies the label, then dumps the pills out on the counter. His brow furrows as he examines them closely.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, the words coming out sharper than I intended. I want to grab him, shake him, demand answers.

"Where did she get these vitamins?" Konrad asks, his voice carefully neutral.

Elle pushes herself up in the bed, wincing slightly. "They came in the mail about a month ago," she says. "I thought my doctor sent them."

I exchange a sharp look with my dad and Derek. Something's not right here, and I can feel my blood starting to boil.

Konrad rubs his face hard. "Let me test these," he says, scooping up the pills. "I'll be right back." He's out the door before anyone can say anything.

The wait is fucking torture. Elle's grip on my hand tightens, and I can feel her anxiety. I try to keep my face calm, but inside, I'm a mess of fear and rage.

When Konrad finally returns, his expression makes my stomach drop. He takes a deep breath, and I brace myself for whatever bomb he's about to drop.

"I tested the pills myself," he starts, his voice grim. "They're prenatal vitamins, but there's something else mixed in. It's a medication used to induce vomiting after poisoning, and in some cases… to cause miscarriages."

The words hit me like a fucking sledgehammer. "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?" I roar, my vision going red. Elle flinches at my outburst, and I force myself to take a deep breath, but the rage is overwhelming.

Someone's been trying to hurt Elle, to hurt our baby. And they've been doing it right under our noses. As the implications sink in, I can feel the beast inside me stirring, hungry for blood.

"The baby is fine," Konrad says, his voice steady but tense. "It seems that Elle being so sick and unable to keep down the pills has actually protected the baby."

I feel Elle freeze beside me, her body going rigid. My fists clench at my sides, knuckles turning white with the effort of restraining myself.

"When I find out who did this," I growl, my voice low and dangerous, "they're going to wish they were never born. I'm going to fucking tear them apart."

Elle's hand finds mine, her touch anchoring me even as I feel the rage building inside. I take a deep breath, trying to focus on her, on what she needs right now.

Konrad continues, his tone professional but with an undercurrent of anger that matches my own. "We're going to flush it out of her system. She needs to stay in the hospital to make sure she recovers fully."

He reaches out and musses up Elle's hair, a familiar gesture that seems at odds with the gravity of the situation. "We'll get the princess better," he says, his voice softening slightly.

Elle manages a weak smile, and I lean down to kiss the top of her head. The scent of her shampoo, faint but still there, grounds me further.

I straighten up, my voice hard as steel as I address everyone in the room. "Every single medication brought to her is to be inspected by Konrad. A guard will be outside the door at all times. I'm not taking any more chances with her life."

I know it's not technically my place to give orders, but I don't give a fuck. To my relief, my dad nods in agreement, his face grim.

"Damn straight," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Nobody's getting near her without going through us first."

As we move Elle to a private room outside of the ER, I stay glued to her side, my eyes constantly scanning for any potential threat. The guys form a protective circle around us, their presence both comforting and intimidating.

Once in the room, we make sure Elle's comfortable, adjusting pillows and blankets until she's settled. I perch on the edge of her bed, unwilling to be more than an arm's length away from her.

"Chris," Elle whispers, her voice small and scared. "What if… what if they try again?"

I cup her face in my hands, my thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. "They won't get the chance," I promise, my voice fierce. "I swear to you, Elle, I'll keep you safe. Both of you."

My hand moves to rest on her stomach, a protective gesture that feels more necessary than ever. Elle's eyes fill with tears, and I lean in to press my forehead against hers.

"We're in this together," I murmur. "You and me against the world, remember?"

She nods, a tear slipping down her cheek. I brush it away, my touch gentle despite the rage still simmering beneath the surface.

As Elle drifts off to sleep, exhausted by the day's events, I settle into the chair beside her bed. My eyes never leave her face, watching the rise and fall of her chest, reassuring myself that she's still here, still safe.

But in the back of my mind, plans are already forming. Whoever did this to Elle, to our baby, they're going to pay, and they're going to pay dearly. And when I find them—because I will find them—they're going to learn just how far I'll go to protect what's mine.

Elle

I stare at the ceiling, trying to keep my breathing steady as waves of nausea and fear crash over me. The beeping of the monitors and the hushed whispers of my family fill the room, a constant reminder of where I am and why. I don't want them to see how terrified I am, how weak I feel. But it's hard to hide it when you're hooked up to machines and can barely lift your head.

Every time someone comes to check on me, I see the fear in their eyes, no matter how hard they try to mask it. It's like looking in a mirror, seeing my own terror reflected back at me. And Christopher… God, Christopher. He's treating me like I'm made of glass, watching over every breath I take. I know he's scared, but his fear is making mine worse.

Who would do this to me? The question echoes in my mind, a constant, maddening refrain. Someone tried to hurt me, hurt our baby. The thought makes me sick in a way that has nothing to do with the morning sickness. How did they even manage to tamper with the pills? It must have taken planning, knowledge. The realization sends a chill down my spine.

I remember the bottle now, how the seal wasn't quite right. I'd brushed it off, thinking the heat of the summer melted it. How could I have been so naive? The what-ifs start to crowd my mind, threatening to overwhelm me.

I push the button to raise the bed, needing to feel less vulnerable. Mason stands by the door, arms crossed, looking every inch the protective biker. Christopher paces the room, his eyes darting to every corner, every shadow. My mom sits nearby, her eyes red-rimmed and worried.

The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable. What can I possibly say? I don't know who's doing this or why. I've never been cruel to anyone, never done anything to deserve this kind of hatred.

The door opens and Konrad enters, carrying more IV bags. "How's the nausea?" he asks, his voice gentle as he fiddles with the equipment.

"Much better," I admit, and it's like the whole room exhales. "I feel human for the first time in forever."

Christopher's jaw clenches, his eyes flashing. "First things first, I'm fucking firing your doctor. I'm going to ask her how this happened."

I reach out, desperate to keep him close. "Stay with me, please." I don't want drama or revenge. All that matters is that our baby is okay.

The door opens again, and Christopher tenses, ready to fight. But it's just Reid and Smiley, laden with bags and blow-up mattresses. The sight of them, of all these people here for me, breaks something inside.

"I love you guys all so much," I choke out, tears spilling over.

My dad moves to the bed, wrapping me in a tight hug. I bury my face in his chest, letting out all the fear and grief and gratitude. I cry for what almost happened, for the innocence I've lost, for the love surrounding me.

As I cling to my dad, I feel Christopher's hand on my back, a steady, warm presence. I turn my head to look at him, seeing the mix of love and fury in his eyes. "We'll figure this out," he murmurs, his voice low and fierce. "I promise you, Elle. No one's going to hurt you or our baby ever again."

Stalker

T he harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor flicker, casting eerie shadows as I pace back and forth. My fists clench and unclench rhythmically, matching the pounding of my heart. This was supposed to be my moment, my chance to finally claim what's rightfully mine. But those bastards won't leave her side for even a second.

I peer around the corner, my eyes narrowing as I spot the hulking figure of one of Christopher's goons standing guard outside Elle's room. The sight of him makes my blood boil. They're like cockroaches, infesting every corner of her life.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, trying to calm the rage threatening to consume me. I can still see her face in my mind, pale and drawn, but still so beautiful. The gentle swell of her stomach, carrying my child, makes my heart race with anticipation.

The plan had been perfect in its simplicity. Those vitamins, laced with just the right combination of drugs, were supposed to bring her here, alone and vulnerable. That was my moment to grab her, and our unborn child, and take her away from those felons.

Nothing is easy with her.

I'd even prepared a cabin across state lines, a safe haven where we could finally be together without interference.

But nothing's ever that easy, is it?

I lean against the wall, my mind racing through possible scenarios. There has to be a way to get to her, to make her understand that we belong together. The image of her rounded belly flashes through my mind again, and I feel a possessive hunger gnaw at my insides.

Time is running out. Once the baby is born, it'll be even harder to move her. The thought of Christopher raising my child makes me want to vomit.

I start walking again, my footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. My hand brushes against the cold metal of the gun tucked into my waistband. A last resort, but one I'm more than willing to use if necessary.

Those bikers think they're so tough with their gated community and their guards. But they don't know what I'm capable of. They don't understand the depths of my love for Elle, the lengths I'll go to make her mine.

As I round the corner again, I catch a glimpse of Christopher through the partially open door. He's holding Elle's hand, his thumb tracing circles on her skin. The sight makes my vision blur with rage.

I retreat quickly, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. My mind is made up. If I can't have her, no one will. I'll burn their whole world down if I have to.

Their days are numbered, and they don't even know it yet. But soon, very soon, they'll understand. And Elle… Elle will finally be where she belongs.

With renewed determination, I slip away from the hospital, my mind already formulating the next phase of my plan. The game isn't over yet.

It's only just beginning.