Claimed by the Ruthless Biker
Laughter boomed off the rafters, and the jukebox was screaming a classic rock anthem that rattled the windows.
I sat in the heavy leather throne at the end of the hall, wearing a dress of dark, midnight-blue silk that hugged the slight, new curve of my stomach. Ruan stood beside me, his hand resting possessively on my shoulder. He had traded his tactical gear for a clean black button-down, but the chrome revolver was still tucked into the small of his back. He looked like a king at rest, but his eyes never stopped moving.
"You look like you're miles away, Doc," Ruan whispered, leaning down so his lips grazed my ear.