Page 9 of Perdition (Unchained Hearts #4)

After the intervention in the conference room, as sort of a perversion of their usual weekly Church, he’d been ignoring texts from Sarah, who was concerned about his lack of response to her previous five texts that day, and the last two holdovers, Mig and Moses, for the patch over, who were demanding a larger percentage of the overall club income.

Honestly, Frost wouldn’t have minded giving them the 3% of revenue every non-officer member received; they were skilled labor and had brought the Bone Dogz MC plenty of business as freelance electricians.

However, their attitude, that they were owed that money without having even sworn loyalty to the Unchained first?

That smacked of entitlement, and neither Frost nor Patriot had the patience for grown-ass brats stomping their feet and demanding shit without first putting in the work.

Hell, even his nineteen-year-old twins knew they had to work for what they wanted; hadn’t been handed a damn thing in their lives.

They even demanded they get to have jobs so they could pay for part of their own tuition and living expenses, even though their parents were well off enough to send them both to a six-year college without breaking a sweat.

Even before Em opened her business, they hadn’t been hurting for money. Since he’d founded the Unchained MC, there’d been more than enough opportunity for legit income, so they’d opened businesses, ran them with integrity and loyalty, and the money rolled in.

Money he’d used to buy their house, and then to help Emily open her flower shop.

Fuck.

Emily. His Bloom.

Heaving a sigh that seemed to come from his fucking feet, he checked his phone, once again—like a compulsion—for a message from his wife, a response to his text.

Nothing.

And there hadn’t been anything in several days.

What the fuck?

In the last several months, Sarah had texted him more often than his own wife had…

and the brothers wondered why he’d been paying Sarah more attention—because she was making it impossible to not pay attention to her.

She was in his face, all the time. And, if he were honest, he enjoyed having her attention, too.

At least she was reaching out to him, talking to him, spending time and energy on him… unlike Emily. His old lady. His wife.

Shit…he sounded like a pouty little bitch.

Scrubbing his hand down his face, he grimaced at the roughness of his jaw and chin. Usually, he was clean shaven, since Emily enjoyed it.

“You have the face of a book cover model, babe. Sharp cheek bones, strong chin…you are too yummy to hide behind scruff.” He’d chuckled, then she’d smirked playfully, her fingers tracing his features with her natural sensuality.

She’d pressed a lingering kiss to his chin, then his lips, and then they’d spent the next two hours with her telling him, without words, just how much she’d like his scruff-free face… by sitting on it.

But that was…well, that was more than five years ago.

Fuck.

Shoving his desk chair back under his desk, he pocketed his keys and cellphone, then dragged himself from his office, locking the door behind him.

Again, he trusted his brothers, but it wasn’t just brothers that came and went from the clubhouse, and he was smart enough and wary enough to keep the important shit locked up.

Earlier that day, he’d gotten a notification on his phone that someone had entered his house, and since the alarm hadn’t gone off, telling him it was a break in, he knew it was either Em or one of the kids.

Sorsha and War didn’t usually come home during the week since classes ran most days and they worked their part time jobs at night, so chances were that Emily was home.

It was a Thursday. During a typical week, she’d still be at work, grinding away until late, which meant the house was often empty. There was a reason he’d been spending more time at the clubhouse, crashing in his room on the top floor. When his wife wasn’t home…it didn’t feel like a home.

But Emily was home right now…and he hadn’t seen her in so long….

Fuck, he ached for missing her—and not just seeing her. He hadn’t even held his wife in…well, fuck…months. When was the last time he’d even seen her naked? Touched her lush, curvy body, a body that still made him hard as fuck when just a flash of her soft, fragrant flesh?

Focusing on getting the fuck home and having a conversation—and hopefully more —with his wife for the first time in weeks, he hurried through the common room, valiantly attempting to ignore the sight of Clusterfuck’s ass as he railed Marci over the pool table.

The fucker was bare assed, thrusting like he was chasing something.

Across the room, Patriot, Tornado, and Malo were sitting, heads together, around a table, their untouched beers in front of them.

Any other time, he’d stop, shoot the shit, and probably grab a drink with them—they were all good men.

But after that shitshow in Church…he wasn’t feeling much like chatting.

And from the way they looked at him like they were daring him to come over, he knew they weren’t too happy with the way he’d walked out, shutting that shit down.

He’d heard enough of their opinion on the matter of his own fucking marriage. And every word of it had been etched into his brain, heart, and soul.

And it didn’t help that his day had started like shit.

He woke up in his clubhouse room, in a cold, lonely bed, a bed his wife hadn’t slept in in years.

That morning, he’d felt that absence more intensely, like a part of him was missing.

Like a part of him had been cut away, leaving a bloody, ravaged stump.

His shower was hot, but he got soap in his eyes, he’d dropped his wallet in the toilet, and he’d burned his mouth on his coffee.

If that wasn’t enough, then he’d gotten a text from one of his Army brothers telling him that one of the men they’d gone to basic with had died from complications from wounds he’d sustained while on active duty.

Traumatic brain injuries were fucking bullshit!

Then, that shit with Sarah. Shit that he now knew the club brothers would have twisted into something bad—even though he hadn’t done a goddamn thing wrong!

Right?

Fuck, he didn’t know.

Mounting his bike and starting it, he pulled up his memories from that encounter.

Sarah had come into his office, looking ‘bout ready to cry, and despite having no interest in dealing with a weepy female, something inside him forced him to invite her in. She’d closed the door behind her, which he hadn’t liked, so he’d gone to it, opened it so it was ajar, and then leaned against his desk, crossed his arms, and waited impatiently for Sarah to share why she’d come to him with tears in his eyes.

She was a club whore, so she was under club protection, so he couldn’t just ignore her—she might have been in actual trouble.

Also, she’d become someone special to him, on some level, and so seeing her hurting was uncomfortable.

And how many times had she been there when he was feeling overwhelmed or frustrated, and she’d offered him a shoulder or kind word?

Turned out, though, she was just…disappointed.

One of the brothers had drunkenly told her that she wasn’t wife material, and she’d taken it personally, which was ironic as fuck, considering the woman was willingly spreading her legs for whoever crooked their finger at her.

She was doing was she wanted to do, no one was forcing her, but…

apparently, she aspired to being a wife.

He’d wanted to roll his eyes and remind her that being a club whore was voluntary, and she could give up the lifestyle any time she wanted.

She was young, she still had a life ahead of her, which meant she could change her mind, live the club whore life for a while, then get herself a husband later.

Sarah…well, she was one of those people who wasn’t ready to be tied down, and besides that, he couldn’t see her sticking with one man for too long.

Maybe that would change one day, but from what he’d learned about her, and had perceived with his own eyes, Sarah wasn’t wife material.

At least not yet. And he’d basically told her that, that she shouldn’t stick with one person, not so soon—it wasn’t part of her make up, and she wasn’t quite mature enough for commitment.

He hadn’t told her that last bit, because he was already weary of their conversation.

When Sarah had brought up his relationship to Em, he’d shut down immediately, unwilling to discuss his marriage with anyone, especially with how sharply he felt the sword dangling over it.

He’d mentally cut Sarah off after that, which is the only thing that explained his easy agreement to take her back to the red maple.

Where he shouldn’t have taken her the first time.

Fuck.