Page 35 of The First Cut

“The baby. He’s moving, right? You always get this look on your face when he moves.”

“He’s kicking me because he’s bored, just like I am.”

He moves closer and climbs onto the bed beside me, his hand hovering over mine. With a sigh, I grab it and press it to my stomach, where my son is practicing his soccer skills.

“He’s feisty,” Hannibal says. I can’t be sure, but I swear there’s a bit of awe in his voice.

“It feels like he’s running out of room.”

“He’s got all the space he needs.” Reluctantly, he pulls his hand away and looks up at me. “Your eye looks better.”

I nod. The swelling’s down, and the bruise is fading into that ugly green-yellow stage. If I had some makeup, I could easily cover it up.

“I need to make a supply run today, so I’ll be taking the truck instead of the bike. You wanna come?”

I sit upright. “Really?”

He nods. “I need to restock the clinic here and grab a few things for when we head back. You have anyone with medical training back home?”

“Umm…I think Mud used to be a paramedic, but I might be mixing him up with someone else. He and Meek are kinda new, and I don’t spend much time at the club, so I’m not too sure.”

“A paramedic’s good. Is that who the club uses when someone needs medical attention?”

I shake my head. “They have a doctor they call. I think they’ve got something on him—I don’t know what—but whatever it is, it’s enough for him to throw his ethics out the window.”

“You don’t like him.”

“Haven’t you heard? I don’t like anyone.”

“Funny, you might be standoffish, but you aren’t the cold-hearted bitch I’ve heard you are.”

I swallow, hating that’s what people say about me behind my back.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. That look right there.” He brushes his thumb across my cheek. “A real cold-hearted bitch wouldn’t give a fuck what anyone else thought of them. But you do, don’t you?”

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter,” I say as he stares at me. “So, um, what time are we leaving?”

“Huh?”

“To get supplies.”

“Oh. Whenever you’re ready.”

I climb off the bed, conscious of the fact I’m only wearing boxers and one of his T-shirts.

He curses, making me turn.

“I forgot about getting you clothes and shit.”

I shrug. “You’ve been busy. It’s not like I’ve needed them. Your T-shirts and boxers have been fine—though you might wanna do some laundry because you’re running out of clean ones. As for shampoo and stuff, I’ve just been using yours. I hope that’s okay?”

He climbs off the bed and stalks toward me, his hands sliding to my hips as he pulls me close. I freeze at the casual touch. He’s acting like this is something he does all the time. Like I’m his. But I’m not, and he most definitely doesn’t touch me like this.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to be a nag. You’ve been nice enough, and I didn’t want to push my luck and rock the boat.”

“Rock the—” He sighs, dropping his forehead to mine.