Page 7 of Slayin Villain (Royal Bastards MC: Nashville, TN #11)

Rachel

I used to think being the biker’s girl meant always having a seat at the table. Now I realized it just meant I knew where the knives were kept.

It started like any other night.

I worked a twelve-hour shift at Silver Springs, watching over half-sedated patients and checking vitals on folks who’d already given up. I wore scrubs, my hair in a messy bun, and my tattoos hidden beneath a fleece jacket that smelled like antiseptic and cinnamon gum.

No one at the nursing home knew I went home to an outlaw biker with a criminal record and a God complex. No one knew that on weekends I drank whiskey with women who carried pistols in their purses and raised their kids on curses in clubhouses.

That was my secret life.

My real one smelled like bleach and Bengay.

“You okay, Rach?” Nurse Marsha asked as I clocked out. “You’ve been a little pale lately.”

“Just tired.”

I was always tired now.

Tired of waiting on Villain.

Tired of pretending I didn’t care when he didn’t text back.

Tired of throwing up every morning and pretending it was just stress.

I changed in the backseat of my car before driving to Royal Road.

Traded my Crocs and scrubs for a tight black top, ripped jeans, and boots I hadn’t had the energy to break in yet.

I slicked my lipstick on in the rearview mirror, smeared it with my thumb, and drove through the gates like I belonged.

Gunn waved me on through as soon as he saw my hybrid.

I was halfway through the clubhouse doors when I saw them.

Villain.

Ember.

She was dressed like sex on legs, tight denim, tube top, red lips, curly hair straightened and curled under at the ends, that effortless kind of hot I always had to work for. She was laughing at something he said, her hand on his arm like she’d been there before.

Like she’d stay.

His back was to me, but I knew that body like the back of my hand. Massive shoulders, that leather cut stretching across his back, blond hair messy from his helmet or maybe her fingers.

I didn’t know. I didn’t want to fucking know.

What I did know?

He leaned in and kissed her cheek.

Not quick. Not innocent.

And she smiled like it meant something.

I didn’t stay.

I turned right back around and walked out.

The gravel cracked beneath my boots like bones snapping under pressure. I hit the gate before I even realized I was running. Thorn called after me from the front porch, but I didn’t stop. Didn’t answer.

Because if I did, I’d scream.

My phone buzzed twice. Then again.

Villain: Where you at?

Villain: You just leave?

Villain: Talk to me.

I threw my phone into the passenger seat and floored it out of the compound.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t break.

Not until I was in my trailer, back in my pajamas, barefoot and staring at the empty space on my nightstand where he usually dropped his chain.

That’s when the sickness hit.

I barely made it to the bathroom in time.

Violent heaving tore through me until I had nothing left but a sour taste in my throat and tears in my eyes.

This wasn’t just stress.

This wasn’t denial anymore.

I dragged myself to the cabinet, opened the drawer where I kept the test I’d bought three days ago just to be sure but didn’t have the guts to use.

I peed on the stick with shaking hands and sat on the floor.

I stared at the test for exactly three minutes.

Then I stared at the two lines.

Two. Not one.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

Not just brokenhearted. Not just betrayed.

Still fucking pregnant.

Later that night, curled up under a blanket that didn’t smell like him and stared at the blank screen of my phone. No new texts. No more calls. Just a photo of him and me from a month ago, back when he’d talked about giving me a property patch.

I’d believed him.

I thought I was the only one.

I thought he was mine.

But tonight, he looked like someone else’s.

And I didn’t know if I was strong enough to find out which version of him was real.