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Auteur: Evve
last update Date de publication: 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   141

    Five years.The number sits in my head, heavy and sweet, like a shot of the top-shelf bourbon I now stock behind the bar.I wipe down the mahogany counter of The Iron Crown. It’s not sticky anymore. It doesn't smell of stale beer and desperation. It smells of espresso, expensive leather, and success.Sunlight streams through the plate-glass windows—bulletproof, naturally—illuminating the dust motes dancing in the afternoon air. The lunch rush is over. The place is quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerators and the sound of a very small, very fast engine.VROOOM.A miniature black motorcycle tears across the polished concrete floor."Watch the corners, Elias!" I call out.My son drifts the electric toy bike around a table leg, his little boot skimming the floor just like his father’s does. He’s five years old, with a mop of dark curls and eyes that burn with an intensity that scares his kindergarten teachers.Drakon’s eyes."I got it, Mama!" Elias shouts, revving the plastic throttle

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   140

    Drakon kicks the door to the master suite shut.The sound echoes like a final gavel strike, sealing us inside our own private world. The noise of the party downstairs—the bass, the laughter, the clinking bottles—fades into a dull, rhythmic thrum in the floorboards.He doesn't put me down. He carries me to the center of the room, his chest heaving against mine. He looks at me with a hunger that has nothing to do with the war we just survived and everything to do with the peace we are about to build."You meant it?" he growls. "About the babies?""I meant it," I say, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist. "I want a dynasty, Drakon. I want this house full of noise.""You're insatiable.""I'm yours."He growls, a low vibration that rumbles through his chest and into mine. He walks to the bed. He drops me onto the mattress.The silk sheets are cool, but my skin is burning. I scramble back against the headboard, watching him.He stands at the foot of the bed. He strips.He pulls the Pre

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   139

    The bass vibrates through the soles of my boots.The clubhouse is alive. Not with the frantic energy of a siege or the grim silence of a war room, but with a roar of celebration that threatens to lift the new roof right off the beams.Music blares from the jukebox—classic rock, heavy and driving. Smoke hangs in the air, a blue haze that smells of expensive cigars and victory. Bourbon flows like water.I stand near the bar, leaning against the polished wood. I am wearing my cut. The white silk dress is gone, replaced by jeans and a tank top, but the leather jacket remains. Property of the President."Another?" Riker asks, sliding a glass of water toward me."Please." I take a sip. I’m still nursing, still recovering, but the adrenaline of the day hasn't faded. It hums in my veins.I scan the room.The brothers are laughing. Men who were bleeding three days ago are now slapping each other on the back, retelling stories of the bridge and the warehouse. The new prospects are running drink

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   138

    The white dress is simple. Silk. Vintage. It flows around my legs like water.It’s the kind of dress a bride wears to a garden party. Innocent. Pure.It doesn't belong here.I stand in the center of the clubhouse, the morning sun streaming through the open doors, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The room smells of floor wax and the lingering scent of last night’s bourbon."It needs something," Zara says. She’s standing behind me, adjusting the straps. She’s wearing her own cut now—a patched member of the new order."It needs armor," I say.I reach for the chair where I laid it out.The leather is new. Stiff. Black as a moonless night.It’s not Eleni’s cut. That one hangs in a frame on the wall of the Chapel now—a memorial to the girl who burned the bridge.This is mine.I slip my arms into the sleeves. The weight settles on my shoulders, heavy and comforting. I zip it halfway up, leaving the white silk visible underneath.I turn to the mirror.On the back, stitched in b

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   137

    The Chapel is empty. The brothers have dispersed to the barracks or the bonfire outside, celebrating the end of the war and the return of the King.Drakon doesn't take me to the bedroom.He takes my hand and leads me back into the main barroom.It’s quiet here. The air smells of lemon polish—freshly applied to scrub away the scent of the Reapers who defiled this space—and the lingering, permanent aroma of stale beer and leather. The neon signs buzz softly, casting the room in a wash of electric blue and red."Why are we here?" I ask."Because this is where it started," Drakon says.He walks behind the bar. He pours two fingers of amber liquid into a heavy crystal glass. He doesn't drink it. He sets it on the polished wood."Nikos sat right there," Drakon says, pointing to the stool I’m standing next to. "The night before he died. He drank a toast to the future."He looks at me. His eyes are dark, heavy with the weight of the patch he now wears."He toasted to a lie," Drakon says. "Ton

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   136

    "I want my vote," Eleni says.Her voice is dry, cracking like old parchment, but it cuts through the silence of the Chapel louder than a gunshot.She stands there, leaning on her crutch, her face a map of scars and burns. The faded PROSPECT patch lies on the redwood table next to the canvas bag soaking with Kyros’s blood."You don't have a vote," Riker growls, stepping forward. His hand rests on his knife. "You're a Reaper, Eleni. You wore their cut. You rode with them.""I survived them," she spits back. "And I killed them. Which is more than you did while you were hiding in the woods.""Watch your mouth," Riker warns."Enough," Drakon says.He looks at the patch on the table. Then he looks at his sister. The conflict in his eyes is a storm. Blood versus code. Family versus the law he just swore to uphold."You left," Drakon says heavily. "Ten years ago. You didn't come back.""I couldn't come back," Eleni says. "Not while he owned me. But I'm back now. And I didn't come empty-handed

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   95

    The spotlight burns the back of my neck."Hold on!" Drakon screams over the roar of the rotor blades.He wrenches the handlebars hard to the left. The Ducati skids on the wet pine needles, the rear tire sliding out. We aren't riding anymore; we are falling with style.The bike goes down.We hit the

    last updateDernière mise à jour : 2026-03-31

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   87

    The splash of Drakon’s guns hitting the water echoes like a gavel strike in the hollow pipe."Good boy," Nikos sneers.He doesn't let me go. He tightens his grip on my hair, dragging me backward into the suffocating dark."Drakon!" I scream, my voice tearing at my throat.Drakon lunges. He splashes

    last updateDernière mise à jour : 2026-03-30

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   81

    "Move!"Drakon’s scream is the last thing I hear before the world turns white.Andreas presses the button.There is no sound at first. Just pressure. A physical wave of air that hits me like a solid wall. It lifts me off my feet. It throws me backward.Then, the noise arrives.CRACK-BOOM.It’s the

    last updateDernière mise à jour : 2026-03-29

  • Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend   82

    I wake up to the smell of lavender and decay.My head is pounding, a dull, rhythmic thud behind my eyes that matches the slow beat of my heart. I try to lift my hand to my temple.Clink.Metal stops me.I open my eyes.I am lying on a bed. Not a cot in a cell, not a mattress on a floor. A massive,

    last updateDernière mise à jour : 2026-03-29
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