Page 20 of Perdition (Unchained Hearts #4)

THIRTEEN

Staring at the condensation sliding down the outside of his beer, Frost ignored the sounds of the rowdy after work crowd drinking and eating and relaxing at the bar in Cool Hands.

When James Quinn, son of a longtime friend, had first come to him, asking for the Unchained to invest in his bar, Frost had been hesitant.

There were dozens of bars in Scranton already, established pubs and holes in the wall with regulars that would rather drink piss than grab a drink somewhere they didn’t already have a running tab, ten years long.

But the man had done his research, presenting Frost with a business proposal that seemed like just the legitimate endeavor the club needed to add regular income to their coffers.

So far, Cool Hands was going better than expected, bringing in a steady crowd of Millennials and early Gen Zers who enjoyed old school booze, local IPAs, and mouthwatering bar foods.

“That beer going to give up it’s secrets?” Stallion asked as he sat down on the stool beside Frost at the bar.

“Nah, and I’m not asking. Already got enough to think about,” Frost grumbled, then narrowed a glare at the other man who smirked knowingly.

“I just bet you do,” Stallion replied. “Redtube and Locust blabber like old women, so there isn’t a brother in the club who doesn’t know that you and Emily are having problems. Matter of fact, no one needed to blab a thing; I could see it with my own eyes, that you’ve been getting cozy with that club slut.

Can’t imagine Em being all that appreciative of that. ”

Stallion didn’t care much for the club women, and it was no surprise after what he’d had to deal with.

For years after being discharged from the military, and then patching in with the Unchained, Stallion—government name Brandon Green—had been a nomad, drifting from place to place across the country, never putting down roots, never staying anywhere longer than a few months, and always leaving everything and everyone in his rearview.

Until his sister, Jaime, went and fucked up, making Frost and Patriot call him home to deal with her and the fallout of her betrayal to the club.

The woman had lied, abusing club resources to try and get her claws into Patriot.

She’d even weaponized the club whores in an attempt to humiliate and alienate Patriot’s woman, Cilla.

Thankfully, Jaime’s bullshit didn’t stick, and Patriot and Stallion had forced her from the club and the whole state.

Redtube was keeping tabs on her, making sure she never crossed into Pennsylvania again.

Frost had thought that once Jaime was dealt with, Stallion would hit the road again, but the man had surprised Frost, choosing to stay, and even taking on the job of co-manager and security at Cool Hands.

Allowing himself a moment of vulnerability after too long of being strong, impenetrable, untouchable, Frost admitted, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

Beside him, Stallion took a swig of his own beer, his gaze on the reflection of the room behind them through the mirror along the shelves of booze.

“Who does?” Stallion offered laconically. “The problem isn’t that you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, it’s that you keep pushing forward despite knowing you’re in the wrong. That’s like breaking your leg on mile five but still finishing the marathon.”

Frost pinched his lips shut, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from denying what Stallion said.

That asshole was right.

Fuck.

Frost had known he was fucking shit up, but he kept doing what he’d been doing, expecting Em to come to him, to compromise, to bend—fuck, when had Em ever really been bendable?

That woman was the strongest person he knew.

All the months alone, raising the twins, keeping the home fires burning while he was gone overseas.

All those nights alone, being a wife and mother, MC club queen, and all-around powerhouse while he was away doing club business.

Em didn’t bend, she was made of steel and grit and devotion and determination, and it was one of the things he most admired about her.

It was one of the things that made loving her so easy, because he knew he could depend on her, lean on her, trust her with everything he held dear.

And she’d been able to do all of that because, despite not being there in person due to circumstances out of his control—deployment and club business where the president’s presence was required—he was still there , still her support, her husband, the father of her children, her best friend, her most trusted and most devoted person.

When her ship began to tip during life’s storms, he’d been the one she’d call or come to to right the vessel and bring it safely back to port.

In a world where faith, trust, true love, and honesty were a rare commodity, Em and Mads had been fortunate to have it all.

They’d met young, fell in love, and built a beautiful life together, but somewhere, somehow, that ship he’d been righting for years starting taking on water, and now it was so close to sinking, he and the woman he loved were being sucked down into the dark and deep by the drag force.

So why the fuck had be been giving any part of his trust and attention to a woman who wasn’t her? Why had he expected that Em would still be there, holding shit together, even though he’d stopped being her savior in stormy seas?

A firm hand on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned to look at the concern on Stallion’s face.

“Whatever happens, know that I’m around if you need someone to talk to,” Stallion offered, a glint of understanding in his eyes.

And he would understand; both of them having spent years of their lives in the service, surrounded by hardasses who would rather die than show a millimeter of weakness. But they both knew that asking for help, and leaning on someone else wasn’t weakness but rather a show of strength.

A skyscraper couldn’t withstand an earthquake without the miles of steel rebar holding it up.

“Thanks, brother,” Frost rasped, grasping Stallion’s shoulder in acknowledgement of the man’s gift.

Just then, Stallion was called away to deal with an invoicing problem, leaving Frost alone to drown his self-made sorrows.

Checking the time, he realized it was already past dinner time, and he’d hadn’t had an actual meal in two days, not sense the morning he’d been caught fucking up his own marriage in the clubhouse office.

Just remembering that goddamn bullshit made his stomach twist.

Why was it only after he’d let his marriage slip through his fingers that he’d woken the fuck up to all he’d been doing?

You never know what you have until she’s gone….

Fuck. Em.

His Em.

His Bloom.

The very breath in his lungs and the blood in his veins, the heart in his chest, and the other half of his wicked soul.

If she didn’t let him explain, if she never gave him a chance to make it right, how the hell was he supposed to survive without her?

Hell, he’d barely survived the months away from her during the first years of the marriage during his deployments.

He remembered the first time he’d returned home after his first six-month deployment. He’d gotten off the plane in Fort Drum, driven the two-hundred miles back to Wilkes-Barre, and headed straight home to the apartment in a building beside the busy highway.

The city had softened into a low hum by the time Mads closed the door behind him.

Rain traced slow, deliberate lines down the windowpanes, blurring neon into watercolor streaks.

The trailer smelled faintly of jasmine and the vanilla cake Emily had left cooling on the stove, a domestic sweetness that made the ordinary feel like an offering from a goddess to a mortal.

A goddess he wanted to kneel before and worship.

Fuck, he’d been gone too long, had missed so much.

She was now several months postpartum, and her face was fuller, her breasts were bigger, her thighs and ass and hips were plumper, rounder, sexier.

Immediately, his cock thickened in his utility pants.

Emily was by the window, one hand resting on the sill, back to him.

The silhouette of her shoulder was a familiar map he could read in the dark.

She turned when she heard him, and for a moment their movements were the same — two parts of a single, easy conversation.

Her smile arrived before words did, soft and full of something like home.

“You’re back,” she rasped, tears filling her beautiful eyes.

It was nearing midnight, so she was dressed in one of his old t-shirts, and a pair of sleep shorts.

Her hair was damp from the shower, and the t-shirt was stuck to her chest where drops of water from her hair had caused the fabric to cling to her unbound breasts.

Her nipples were hard, poking through the shirt to greet him.

Her skin was flushed, and she looked fresh and pure but still sexy as fuck.

His mouth watered—she looked fucking edible.

“I’m home, Em,” he replied, his voice husky with emotions he’d locked away for months.

She smiled, but the tears still slid down her cheeks.

His heart jerked in his chest.

“Oh Em, oh baby, don’t cry,” he choked out, his throat right.

She opened her arms, and he opened his, and the world was almost right again.

He crossed the room slowly so that the minutes stretched between them and didn’t feel like a rush.

Enraptured, his gaze caught on the small, private things: the freckle at the corner of her jaw, the way her hair had escaped the knot and softened around her neck, the way she smiled with her whole body.

He reached for her like he reached for the best parts of himself — without pretense, without measurement.

Fuck. I missed this.

His Em was in his arms again.

He closed his eyes and...breathed.

Emily smelled like her shampoo, honey lavender, that against her warm skin was an aphrodisiac to his scenes. Goddamn, he needed her.