Semua Bab Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend: Bab 1 - Bab 10

I drag the rag across the sticky mahogany of the bar counter. The smell of stale beer and bleach burns my nose. My back screams in protest, a sharp, hot knot of tension right between my shoulder blades.It’s 2:00 AM at The Rusty Nail. The neon sign in the window buzzes like a dying fly."You missed a spot, sweetheart."Sal’s voice is grease and gravel. I don't look up. I scrub harder at a stubborn ring of whiskey."I didn't miss anything, Sal. It’s a stain. This wood is older than I am.""Maybe you just need the right motivation."His hand lands on my hip. Heavy. Sweaty. Squeezing.I drop the rag. It slaps onto the wet wood with a wet thwack. I spin around, slapping his hand away hard enough to make a sound."Don't."My voice shakes, but not from fear. From rage. Six months of this. Six months of double shifts, aching feet, and dodging hands that think a widow is public property.Sal pulls back, rubbing his hand. He grins, showing teeth stained yellow by nicotine. "Feisty tonight, Tha

"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 f

I scream.It’s a raw, tearing sound that rips from my throat before I can stop it. The phone slips from my sweat-slicked hand and clatters onto the floorboards."Thalia!" The voice is tinny, coming from the speaker on the floor. "Thalia, pick up the phone!"I stare at the black plastic device like it’s a grenade.Nikos.My husband. The man I buried six months ago. The man whose suit I picked out for the casket.My knees give out. I hit the floor hard, the impact jarring my teeth. I scramble backward, crab-walking until my back hits the radiator."You're dead," I whisper. "You're dead, you're dead, you're dead.""I'm not dead!" His voice is frantic. Manic. "Listen to me! I don't have time!"I can't breathe. The room is spinning. The dust from the floorboard hangs in the air, choking me.I reach out. My hand shakes so bad I have to use both to grab the phone. I press it to my ear."How?" I choke out."It doesn't matter," he snaps. The tenderness is gone, replaced by a sharp, jagged edge

The world is a blur of wet asphalt and screaming wind.I bury my face in Drakon’s leather cut. The smell of him—rain, old tobacco, and the metallic tang of adrenaline—fills my nose, drowning out the stench of the alley. His back is a wall of muscle against my chest, hard and unyielding.We aren't driving. We’re flying low to the ground. Drakon weaves through traffic like a needle through fabric, cutting margins so thin I squeeze my eyes shut.My thighs burn from gripping the bike. My arms ache from holding onto him. But I don't let go. If I let go, I fall. And if I fall, the Reapers are waiting.Hold on tight, Thalia.His command echoes in my head.We leave the city lights behind. The road turns darker, winding up into the industrial hills where the zoning laws stop and the questions aren't asked.The Compound.I haven't been here since the funeral. Six months ago, I stood in the courtyard in a black dress while fifty men revved their engines in a final salute to a liar.Drakon slows

"The Law of the Keep?"Leon’s voice is a low rumble, disbelief vibrating through the heavy timber of the table.The silence in the Chapel isn't empty. It’s heavy. It presses against my eardrums."You can't," Leon says. He shakes his head, his beard brushing his chest. "That law hasn't been invoked since the founding. It’s archaic, Drakon. It’s for wartime spoils. Not... not for this.""We are at war," Drakon replies. He doesn't look at Leon. He’s looking at me. His eyes are dark, unreadable, and terrifyingly focused. "And she is the spoil.""She’s the President’s wife!" Leon slams his hand on the table again, but this time it’s desperation, not anger. "Dead or alive, rat or saint, she wears Nikos’s patch. You claim her, you break the oldest rule in the book. You don't touch a brother’s woman.""He’s not a brother," Drakon snarls. He steps around the chair, moving into my personal space. The heat radiating off him hits me like a physical wave. "He’s a traitor. A rat doesn't have brothe