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Penulis: Evve
last update Terakhir Diperbarui: 2026-01-06 17:35:35

"Fifty thousand."

The number hangs in the air between us like a guillotine blade.

Drakon freezes. His hand tightens on my shoulder, his fingers digging into the denim of my jacket.

"Fifty?" His voice is low, dangerous.

"Plus interest," I whisper. "Mick... he said it grows every week."

Drakon releases me abruptly. He spins away, pacing the length of my tiny living room in three heavy strides. He looks like a tiger in a shoebox. Too big. Too lethal for this space.

"That son of a bitch." He kicks the leg of my coffee table. It skids across the floor. "He left you to drown."

"He didn't mean to," I say quickly. The defense is automatic, a reflex honed over six months of grieving. "It was an accident. He was going to fix it. He told me he had a plan."

Drakon stops. He turns slowly, looking at me with eyes void of any warmth.

He laughs.

It’s a cold, sharp sound. It scrapes against my nerves.

"A plan?" He steps closer, invading my space again. "Nikos always had a plan. And you know who paid for them? The club. And you."

"He was your brother," I snap. My chin goes up. "He was your President."

"He was a user." Drakon’s voice drops to a growl. "He sat at my table, drank my whiskey, and let his wife serve drinks to perverts to pay for his mistakes."

"I’m handling it."

"You’re almost getting raped by loan sharks. That’s not handling it, Thalia. That’s bleeding out."

He’s right. I know he’s right. But admitting it feels like betraying the man I buried.

"He loved me." My voice cracks.

Drakon’s face softens. Just a fraction. It’s terrifying.

He reaches out. His hand cups my jaw, his thumb rough against my cheekbone. The contact burns. It sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core.

"He owned you," Drakon corrects gently. "There’s a difference."

His thumb strokes my skin. Back and forth. Hypnotic.

I shouldn't let him touch me. He’s the VP. He’s Nikos’s best friend. This is wrong. It’s a violation of every code I know.

But I don't pull away.

I lean into his palm. My eyes flutter shut. For a second, just a heartbeat, I let myself feel the weight of him. The safety.

The smell of him—leather and engine grease—fills my lungs. It’s intoxicating.

Then, the guilt hits. It twists in my gut like a knife.

I jerk back, stumbling against the wall.

"Don't," I gasp. "You can't do that."

Drakon’s hand drops to his side. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide. He doesn't apologize. He looks at my mouth like he wants to devour it.

"You need to quit the bar," he says. His voice is back to being a command. "Tonight. You don't go back."

"I need the money."

"You don't need Sal's money. The club will handle the debt."

"I'm not a charity case," I argue, crossing my arms over my chest. "And I'm not club property anymore. I’m a widow. I handle my own bills."

He steps in, looming over me. The air in the room thickens, heavy with unsaid things and suffocating heat.

"You think this is about money?" He laughs again, but there’s no humor in it. "The Wolves have enemies, Thalia. Sharks in the water. They smell blood. And right now, you’re bleeding."

"I can take care of myself."

"You have a pepper spray and a smart mouth. Against men like Mick? Against the Reapers?" He shakes his head. "You’re a target. A loose end."

"So what? You’re going to be my bodyguard?"

"If I have to be." His gaze locks onto mine. Intense. Unwavering. "I promised to look out for you."

"Nikos made you promise?"

"Nikos didn't have to."

The words hang there, heavy and loaded. My heart hammers against my ribs.

He checks his watch—a heavy, tactical piece that looks like it could knock someone out.

"I have to go. There’s... club business. Messy business." He looks at the broken door, then at the shattered coffee table. "Pack a bag. Someone will be by in the morning to fix the door. Until then, wedge a chair under the handle."

He turns to the door, his leather cut creaking with the movement.

He stops in the doorway. He doesn't look back.

"Check the floorboard," he says.

I blink. "What?"

"Under your bed. The loose one." His voice is low. "The one Nikos told you never to touch because the landlord would evict you."

My blood runs cold. "How do you know about that?"

"Check it, Thalia."

He walks out.

I listen to his heavy boots on the stairs. Then, the roar of his Harley starting up outside. The sound fades into the night, leaving me in a silence that feels louder than the violence.

I stand there for a full minute, staring at the empty doorway.

My legs carry me to the bedroom. My heart is in my throat.

I kneel by the bed. I shove the mattress aside.

There it is. The board Nikos warned me about three years ago. Don't touch it, baby. The building is old. You'll bring the whole floor down.

I dig my fingernails into the gap.

I pull.

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  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   105

    TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.The bathroom tiles explode.Shards of ceramic and drywall spray over us like shrapnel. Drakon covers my body with his own, his heavy frame a shield against the hail of bullets punching through the wall."Stay down!" he roars, his voice barely audible over the mechanical whir of the drone outside.The mirror shatters, raining glass into the sink. The noise is deafening—a continuous, ripping sound that tears the air apart."We can't stay here!" I scream, pressing my face into the wet bathmat. "It's cutting through the wall!""Hallway," Drakon barks.He rolls off me. He grabs a towel from the rack—miraculously intact—and throws it at me. He wraps another around his waist."Move!"He kicks the bathroom door open.We scramble out. We don't stand up. We crawl. We lizard-crawl across the bedroom floor, dragging ourselves through the sea of broken glass that used to be the window.The drone adjusts. The red laser dot sweeps across the bed, hunting.TAT-TAT-TAT.The mattress e

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   104

    The elevator doors slide open with a soft, expensive ding.Drakon steps out first, his gun drawn. He sweeps the hallway—marble floors, modern art, silence."Clear," he rasps.His voice sounds like it’s been dragged over broken glass.We are in a penthouse. Fifty stories up. The city spreads out below us, a grid of amber lights and darkness. It belongs to Silas, the lawyer. A safe house for high-end clients who need to disappear.It’s sterile. Cold. It smells of lemon cleaner and nothing.Drakon walks to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. He doesn't look at the view. He looks at the reflection of the room behind him. He’s vibrating.He’s still wearing his cut. It’s stiff with Markos’s blood. His hands are stained rust-red.He paces.Ten steps to the kitchen island. Turn. Ten steps to the window. Turn.He’s a ghost haunting a glass cage."Drakon," I whisper.He doesn't hear me. He’s back in the trauma room. He’s watching the monitor flatline."He was just a kid," Drakon mutters. He s

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   103

    "They have him."Leon’s words hang in the sterile air of the recovery room, heavy as lead.Before Drakon can speak, before the horror can fully register in his eyes, a sound tears through the night outside.SCREEECH.Tires lock up on asphalt. An engine roars and then dies with a shuddering cough right outside the clinic doors."The bay," Drakon rasps.He moves. He doesn't run; he explodes toward the door, shoving Leon aside.I slide off the bed. My legs are weak, my head swims, but I follow. I have to."Thalia, stay back!" Leon shouts, chasing Drakon.I ignore him. I grab the doorframe for support and push myself into the hallway.The double doors of the emergency bay burst open.The cold night air rushes in, carrying the smell of diesel exhaust and something sharper. Copper.A gray van is parked haphazardly in the ambulance lane, its side door sliding open with a rusted groan.Two men—nomads I don't know—jump out. Their clothes are dark, soaked.They reach into the back. They pull a

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   102

    The door handle turns.I mute the TV. On the screen, the fire in the industrial district is still raging, painting the night sky in angry strokes of orange and black.The heavy chair Leon dragged in front of the door scrapes against the linoleum."Clear," Leon’s voice rumbles from the hallway.The door swings open.Drakon steps inside.He brings the smell of the war with him—acrid smoke, burnt rubber, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. His leather cut is streaked with soot. His knuckles are raw. He looks like a demon who just crawled out of a blast furnace.He kicks the door shut. He throws the deadbolt. Click. Thud.He turns to me.His chest heaves. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide by a cocktail of violence and victory. He scans the room, checking the corners, checking the window, checking me."You're safe," he breathes."I watched it," I say, nodding at the TV. "The news said it's a disaster.""It's a statement."He walks to the bed. He pulls off his gloves, tossing them onto

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   101

    The air in the clinic room shifts.It snaps tight, like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point.Drakon stands by the door. The grief is gone. The relief is gone. He is a statue carved from granite and hate."Leon," he barks."President," Leon responds instantly."The list," Drakon says. He racks the slide of his Glock. Click-clack. "I want every Reaper business on it. The chop shops. The stash houses. The bars on 5th and Main.""We have the locations from the ledger Thalia grabbed," Leon says, pulling his phone. "But we don't have the numbers to hit them all.""We don't need numbers," Drakon snarls. "We need gasoline."He turns to Markos. The kid is still grinning about the paternity test, but the smile dies when he sees Drakon’s face."Markos," Drakon says. "Get the road crew. Whatever is left of the nomads. Tell them it’s open season. No tags. No colors. We go in black.""We burning them out?" Markos asks."We are liquidating the assets," Drakon says. "If it has a Reaper skull o

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   100

    "Read it," Drakon says.His voice is barely a whisper. It cracks in the middle, a jagged sound that scares me more than the shouting.The paper lies on the hospital blanket between us. A single sheet of white bond paper, folded once, stamped with the logo of the private lab.I reach for it. My hand is shaking so bad I can barely grasp the edge.Drakon doesn't wait for me to pick it up.He collapses.It happens in slow motion. The mountain of a man, the VP who held the line against an army of Reapers, who took a bullet for me, who carried me through a tunnel of mud... he just crumbles.His knees hit the linoleum floor with a heavy, bone-jarring thud. He buries his face in his hands on the edge of the mattress. His shoulders heave. A sound tears out of him—a raw, guttural sob that sounds like something dying."Drakon!"I grab the paper. I rip it open. I scan the medical jargon, the columns of numbers, the black ink blurring through my own tears.Subject 1: Thalia Mikos (Mother) Subject

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