Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 131 - Chapitre 140

"Now," I gasp.The word hangs in the air, heavy and wet.Drakon doesn't freeze. He doesn't panic. The softness that was in his eyes seconds ago—the worship, the love—vanishes. It snaps shut like a steel trap.He is the Wolf again."Leon!" Drakon roars. His voice shakes the dust from the rafters of the cabin.He grabs the tactical pants from the floor. He steps into them, hopping on one leg, his eyes never leaving my face. He zips them. He buckles his gun belt."Can you walk?" he demands."I think so."I try to swing my legs over the side of the bed.A contraction hits.It’s not a wave. It’s a wall. It slams into my lower back and wraps around my stomach, squeezing until my vision goes white at the edges."Ah!" I scream, clutching the sheets. "Drakon!"He is there instantly. He doesn't offer comfort. He offers strength. He grabs my arm, his grip bruising."Breathe," he commands. "Three seconds in. Three seconds out.""It feels like... like it's tearing apart.""It's not tearing. It's o

"Perfect timing," Kyros says.He lifts his cane. He points the silver tip at the bundle in Dr. Vane's arms. At my son."Take it," Kyros commands his men. "Kill the rest."The Reaper closest to the door raises his rifle.Drakon doesn't stand up. He doesn't reach for his lost gun.He launches himself from the floor like a missile.He hits the Reaper at the knees. The bone snaps with a wet crunch. The rifle fires into the ceiling, showering us with plaster dust.Drakon roars. It is a sound of pure, unadulterated fatherhood.He drags the screaming man down. He grabs the Reaper’s combat knife from his vest. He rips it free.He drives it into the man's throat.The Reaper gurgles and goes still."Get the baby!" Kyros shouts, backing out of the room as his men swarm in."Vane, down!" I scream.Dr. Vane dives behind the delivery bed, curling his body around the infant.Drakon rises. He is a wall of blood and muscle between the enemy and his family. He has a knife in one hand and a scalpel he g

The Chapel smells of lemon oil, fresh sawdust, and nervous sweat.I stand by the double oak doors, adjusting the blanket around Elias. He is sleeping, a warm, heavy weight against my chest, oblivious to the fact that fifty men are holding their breath waiting for him to enter."Ready?" Leon asks.He stands beside me. He is the Sergeant-at-Arms again. The badge is at the bottom of the river. He wears his cut with a new stiffness, a new pride."Ready," I say.Leon pushes the doors open.We walk in.The room has been restored. The bullet holes in the paneling are filled. The shattered stained glass has been replaced with clear panes that let in the morning sun. The redwood table—the one we desecrated and defended—has been sanded down and refinished, though if you look closely, you can still see the dark stains where the blood soaked too deep to remove.The brothers are standing.There are more of them now. The nomads who came for the war stayed for the peace. New prospects line the back

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

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