Semua Bab The Biker's Rules: Bab 61 - Bab 70

Date = 8 January Almost two weeks since I found out about the little human inside me.Place = Rome (Damion’s penthouse) I decided to join him. To maybe tell him the news … good or bad.POV - Mel“I can get used to you being with me all the time,” he sighs, like it’s a confession, not a thought — his fingers lazily circling, kneading a plump nipple, as if he’s memorizing me by touch alone.“Me too.”And I mean it with my whole body.This must be what heaven feels like — me stretched out between his legs in an absurdly huge bathtub, bubbles climbing the tiled edges like they’ve got somewhere important to be.The water is hot enough to loosen every tight place inside me. His hand cups my breast with reverence, like it’s something precious, something alive that responds eagerly to attention.Which it does. Gratefully.Beyond the massive windows, Rome sprawls beneath the dusk — terracotta rooftops glowing, church domes silhouetted, the city humming softly like it knows secrets and refuses

Date = 17 January Missing Mel is hell.Place = San Francisco (Mel’s house) Getting back to my city is heaven.POV – DamionWARNING – sex scene!!!Food. Sleep. Beer. Sex.That’s the list rattling around in my skull right now — and not necessarily in that order.Hell, I couldn’t tell you which one I want first if my life depended on it. They’re all shoving and elbowing each other for the highest priority like drunk idiots in a bar fight.I’m starving. I’m wired. I’m bone-deep exhausted. And yeah — horny as hell.I feel like a shaken bottle of soda, cap screwed on too tight, pressure building with every second. One wrong move and I’m going to explode.I’ve never been this guy. The one who thinks about a girl longer than five seconds. What to say minutes … hours. Definitely not days that bleed into weeks like this.And it’s driving me completely fucking insane.Since she left Italy, my head’s been spinning faster than the bikes screaming around the track. No brakes. No control. Just roun

Date = 21 JanuaryPlace = San Francisco (On the road)POV - MelaenaWe move into the adjoining room. It smells faintly of coffee and antiseptic. Diplomas line the wall. A soft hum from the air conditioner fills the silence.Dr. Burden gestures for us to sit.“Congratulations, Mel,” she says warmly. “You have a very strong, very healthy little baby growing inside you.”Pride swells in my chest — unexpected and overwhelming. Is this motherhood? This strange cocktail of fear, awe, and fierce protectiveness?“Based on measurements, you’re around eight weeks. Everything looks completely normal.”Relief crashes over me so hard I almost sag in the chair. A tiny spark of excitement flickers beneath the anxiety.Then her eyes scan me — my arms, my frame, my face.“I am concerned about your weight,” she adds gently. “You need to eat. And rest.”Her gaze lingers on the dark circles under my eyes.“You tell her, Doc,” Kiara jumps in. “She’s basically surviving on stress and oxygen.”I glare at he

Date = 21 JanuaryHow fast a day can change. In a single heartbeat.Place = San Francisco (Some room)Don’t know where we are.POV – MelaenaThe little boy stands a few feet away from me, bathed in a glow so bright it almost hurts to look at him.His chubby arms are stretched wide in invitation. Raven-black hair falls into his eyes in wild, stubborn tufts, in serious need of a comb.The face of a little angel, sinlessness exemplified by big apple green eyes, highlighted against thick dark lashes — an image of perfection.He smiles.Dimples sink into his cheeks, and something inside my chest physically aches. A small finger curls toward me. Wiggles for me to follow him.He runs into a tunnel … of white light.He giggles, his voice echoing like music in a cathedral.I try to follow him, but something holds me back. Something tugs at me, anchoring me in place.The tunnel flickers. The white glow trembles like a dying star.The light begins to collapse in on itself, folding like paper in

Date = 21 JanuaryPlace = San Francisco (Uncle John’s house)POV - DamionEveryone crowds the massive wooden conference table like it’s an altar and we’re about to sacrifice common sense on it.The room smells like gun oil, coffee, and fear.Monitors coat the walls from floor to ceiling — green grids, blinking dots, scrolling code, camera feeds of empty streets and warehouse doors, and highways stretching into nothing.Soft electronic beeps puncture the heavy silence, tracking, searching, hunting. The air hums with electricity and restrained violence.Blackburn Inc. is more prepared than the CIA and FBI together.But not one phone can be tracked. They’re all dead. Silent.I take in the faces.Uncle John — jaw locked so tight it can crack teeth.Dad — arms folded, face sharp, calculating, already ten moves ahead.Garcia — still as stone, but there’s a storm behind his eyes.And then us.Logan — leaning forward, fingers steepled, thinking.Ilkay — pale but sharp, absorbing everything.A