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Lahat ng Kabanata ng Pregnant by My Dead Husband's Best Friend: Kabanata 31 - Kabanata 40

141 Kabanata

31

"Dead?"The word hangs in the cold air of the cabin, fragile as glass.Drakon nods. He’s staring at the rough-hewn ceiling, his face gray with pain and exhaustion."I saw him fall," he whispers. "I put two rounds in his chest. Center mass. He went down hard, Thalia. He didn't get up."My hands shake as I pull the blanket up to his chin. "You're sure?""I saw the blood," he says, his voice devoid of triumph. "I killed him. It's over."I sit back on my heels. The relief should be overwhelming. The monster is dead. The ghost is exorcised.But my stomach twists. It feels too easy. Too final."We have to go back," I say, standing up. "The brothers... they walked into a trap. We don't know who made it out."Drakon grunts, forcing himself to sit up. The fresh stitches in his leg hold, but blood seeps through the white gauze."Help me up," he commands.The ride back to the compound is a funeral procession of one.I drive the stolen dirt bike. Drakon holds onto my waist, his grip weak, his hea

32

The screen goes black.Nikos’s laugh—that wet, gurgling sound—echoes in the silence of the courtyard like a grenade that just went off."He's alive," Markos whispers.Drakon doesn't speak. He stares at the phone in his hand. His knuckles are white, straining against the plastic case until—SNAP.The screen cracks under the pressure of his thumb.He throws the phone. It skitters across the asphalt and slides under a parked bike.He turns to the men. His face is a mask of stone, but his eyes are burning with a humiliation so deep it looks like physical pain."Get inside," he growls. "Now."He doesn't wait for them. He limps toward the clubhouse doors, his bad leg dragging, leaving a smear of fresh blood on the concrete.I follow him. I have to.The main room smells of stale beer and defeat.The bodies of the five dead brothers have been moved to the pool room, covered in tarps. The rest of the club is huddled in corners, cleaning weapons, whispering. The air is thick with doubt.Drakon d

33

The world explodes in white noise and diesel fumes.I’m on the floor behind the bar, Drakon’s heavy body covering mine, when the fuel tank of the semi-truck ruptures.BOOM.The shockwave rattles my teeth. Heat rolls over the oak bar, singeing the hair on my arms. Bottles above us shatter, raining glass and liquor down on our heads."Stay down!" Drakon roars, pushing me flat against the sticky floorboards.He rises to a crouch, firing his handgun over the top of the bar. Pop-pop-pop.I scramble to my knees, peering through the gap between the beer taps.The front of the clubhouse is gone. A gaping maw of twisted metal and crumbled brick opens to the night. Through the smoke, shadows are moving.Reapers.They pour out of the back of the truck cab and through the breach in the wall. A dozen of them. Maybe more. They wear skull masks and carry assault rifles."They're inside!" Riker screams from the pool table. "Flank left! Flank left!"Gunfire erupts from every corner of the room. It’s d

34

"St. Jude's."Drakon tests the name on his tongue like it’s poison.He stands in the center of the ruined clubhouse, surrounded by smoke and broken glass. He holsters his gun with a sharp thud."It's a theater," he growls. "He picked the stage. He wants an audience."He walks to the wall behind the bar—the only section still standing. A glass case hangs there, miraculously intact. Inside rests a heavy, wooden gavel. The President's gavel. The symbol of the vote, the law, and the execution.Drakon smashes the glass with his elbow. Crash.He grabs the gavel. He shoves it into his belt next to his knife."Mount up!" he roars at the survivors. "Anyone who can ride, get a bike. We finish this tonight.""Drakon," Leon says, stepping forward. He’s wiped the blood from his eyes, but he looks gray. "We have twelve men. If he's got Reapers up there...""He doesn't want a war," Drakon cuts him off. "If he wanted a war, he would have leveled this place with the truck. He wants a show. He wants to

35

"I almost started without you."Nikos’s voice echoes off the stone walls, smooth and chilling. He stands at the altar, surrounded by hundreds of flickering candles, looking like the groom from a nightmare.Drakon raises his revolver instantly. "Step away from the altar, Nikos. Hands where I can see them.""Always so aggressive, Drakon," Nikos sighs. He lifts his right hand.In his palm rests a small, black device. A detonator. His thumb is pressed down firmly on the plunger."You know how this works," Nikos says, smiling. "Dead man's switch. I let go, the circuit closes. And the twenty pounds of C4 I strapped under the pews turns this holy place into a crater."Drakon freezes. The gun in his hand doesn't waver, but his finger eases off the trigger."You're bluffing," Drakon growls."Am I?" Nikos gestures to the front row with his free hand. "Check under the pew, Leon. Careful with the wires."Leon moves slowly to the front. He crouches down. He looks back at Drakon, his face pale in t

36

I heave into the porcelain bowl.Nothing comes up but bile and the sour taste of adrenaline. My stomach spasms, a violent, cramping knot that doubles me over.I flush the toilet. The sound of rushing water fills the small bathroom of the VP suite.I splash cold water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror. My skin is pale, translucent almost. There are dark smudges under my eyes. I look like a ghost.Six weeks.The number echoes in my head.I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles turn white. It’s just stress. It’s the fire, the shooting, the body in the kitchen. It has to be.But deep down, in the place where I keep my darkest fears, I know.I dry my face with a rough towel.I need answers. And there is only one person who can give them to me.I walk out of the suite. The hallway is quiet. The brothers are downstairs, drinking, celebrating the victory at the church, or mourning the dead.I bypass the main room. I go straight to the basement door.It’s guarded by a prospect I

37

"One man's sins."The words rattle around my skull like a bullet in a tin can.I stagger back from the interrogation room door. The prospect guarding it gives me a wide berth, eyeing the sweat slicking my forehead. I don't see him. I don't see the damp concrete or the bloodstains on the floor.I only see the calendar in my head.Nikos died—or pretended to die—six months ago. But he just told me he warmed my bed six weeks ago.My hand flies to my mouth.Six weeks.I try to remember. Six weeks ago, I was drowning in grief. I was drinking too much wine. I was taking sleeping pills to knock myself out so I wouldn't dream of his casket.Did he come to me? Did he drug me? Did he crawl into my bed while I was unconscious and steal what he thought was his?Or is he lying?"Thalia?"Markos is coming down the stairs. He’s carrying a first-aid kit, probably for Drakon’s knuckles. He stops when he sees me."You look like you're gonna pass out," he says."I need... I need something from the store,

38

The door slams.The sound vibrates through the floorboards, through my knees, settling in my chest like a physical blow.I am alone with the plastic stick on the floor. Two pink lines. A death sentence wrapped in a miracle.I don't move for a long time. The bathroom gets cold. My toes go numb on the tile.Eventually, I stand up. I pick up the test. I wrap it in toilet paper, burying it deep in the trash can. As if hiding it makes it less real.I walk out into the bedroom. The VP suite feels vast and empty. The bars on the windows cast long shadows across the unmade bed where we—where he—claimed me just hours ago.Now, that bed looks like a battlefield.I sit on the edge of the mattress. I wait.I hear things downstairs. Shouting. Glass breaking. The heavy thud of boots pacing. Then, the roar of a bike peeling out of the courtyard.He left.My heart sinks. If he leaves the compound, he’s vulnerable. If he leaves me, I’m defenseless.Time stretches. The digital clock mocks me. 10:00 PM.

39

The whispers start before we even reach the bottom of the stairs.Drakon walks in front of me, his limp pronounced, his back a wall of tension. I follow, wrapped in a heavy coat he forced on me, clutching the knife in my boot like a talisman.The main room is crowded. The morning shift change.As we descend, the conversation dies. Heads turn. Eyes lock onto my stomach.They know."I heard she's carrying," a prospect mutters near the bar. He doesn't bother to whisper."Carrying what?" another sneers. "A Wolf or a Rat?""Doesn't matter. Presidential blood is Presidential blood. If it's Nikos's kid, it's the heir.""Or it's a Reaper brat. We should cut it out of her and be done with it."Drakon stops on the landing. His hand drops to his gun."Silence!" he roars.The room freezes. The brothers look at him—the King of Ash. He looks exhausted, his eyes dark pits, but the violence is still there, coiled and ready."The next man who speaks about my Old Lady," Drakon says, his voice low and v

40

Gunfire erupts.Glass explodes as Drakon rolls across the asphalt, firing blindly toward the tree line. I dive into the footwell, covering my head as bullets ping off the armored chassis of the SUV."Cease fire!" Jax screams from the road. "Cease fire or we light the gas tank!"The shooting stops. The silence that follows is heavy, ringing with the echo of the blasts."Drakon!" Jax calls out. "You're boxed in. You have nowhere to go."I peek over the dashboard. Drakon is crouched behind the front wheel, his gun trained on Jax. He’s outnumbered ten to one. The men in the road—our brothers, men I’ve served drinks to—have their weapons raised."This is treason, Jax!" Drakon roars. "You raise a gun against a patched officer during wartime? That's a death sentence.""The club is already dead!" Jax yells back. "You killed it! You and the rat's wife!"Jax steps closer, confident in his numbers. He’s smiling, that oily, ambitious smile that reminds me of Andreas."Step out, Drakon. Drop the p

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