Page 32 of Property of Rattler

An hour later, I ruefully regret not having accepted her assistance. I know the basics about the best places to position cameras and pressure sensors, but hell, I wish my brothers were here to give me advice.

But me man, her woman, and I’ll be fucked if I’m going to ask for her help. She’s only good for one thing—well, two—but I’m not going there. While she’s here, she can cook, clean and wash our clothes.

I’m here as her protector. Nothing else.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

RATTLER

I’ve finally set up all the cameras and sensors and returned to the cabin. Getting them connected to Wi-Fi takes me a moment, but soon I’ve got the laptop set up and can see the whole of the property. Feeling quite proud of myself, I flick between the screens. Then, realise, on my own, I’ve no way of knowing whether the sensors are working. I lower my head into my hands for a moment, putting off the inevitable, but eventually realise that hoping for the best won’t cut it, and I’ve got to have help to check them out.

Reluctantly, I call out, “Ames?”

There’s an unnecessary clanging of pans, and then she appears. “What?”

Gritting my teeth, I tell her, “I’m going to go down to the gate. You watch this screen and tell me if you can see me. I also need to know if the alarm sounds, and whether that dot flashes as I get close to it.”

“Are you sure that’s woman’s work?” she asks in a sickly-sweet tone.

“It’s the work of someone who doesn’t want her brother to kill her,” I snarl, then leave before I’m tempted to end her myself.

After walking the couple of hundred yards down to the gate, I realise I’ve another problem. She’s got no phone, and I can’t call her to check. So, I traipse back up the road again to ask her.

“Did it work?”

“What?” she asks innocently. “I had to check on dinner.”

I narrow my eyes. “I told you to check the laptop.”

“You also told me to cook dinner.”

Clenching my fists, knowing she’s done this on purpose to rile me up, I go to my rucksack and take out another burner phone I’ve come equipped with. I thrust it at her. “If you don’t want me to do Stone’s work for him, you’ll fuckin’ answer that when I call.”

Her mouth fucking quirks as she takes it.

Then, not trusting myself to keep my hands off her, I walk down the driveway again. Once there, I call her.

“I can see you on the camera. The alarm rang, and the light’s flashing ‘gate’.”

And I’m fucking sure she knew that earlier.

On my return, I’m seething. But, proving she can multitask, she’s plating up a meal. And not just something simple as I’d expected. The cabin’s full of a garlicky aroma, and after she gestures toward me to take a seat at the small dining table, she places two plates down.

Staring down at the offering, then glancing back up at her, she shrugs and says, “Chicken Parmigiana.”

It looks and smells fucking amazing. Hungry, after traipsing around the perimeter for the last few hours, as well as up and down that driveway a few times, I dig in. It tastes as good as it looks.

“Your grandmother taught you well,” I comment through a delicious mouthful.

Her face twists, reminding me how recently she lost her grandparents. I try to feel sympathetic, but honestly, I’ve no empathy. I’ve never lost anyone I care about. I was the baby left at the fire station as nobody wanted me. A sickly child, I’d later found out, already addicted to heroin, thanks, presumably, to my unknown ma. Probably why Child Services couldn't find anyone to adopt me. My earliest memories are of a children’s home full of fucked-up kids. And the foster homes I was placed in from time to time had been worse. I’d learned early on I should never have been born.

I’d known nothing about family until I’d joined the Kings. They’d given me a reason to live. A brotherhood I’d only previously been able to dream about. Carefree, living outside the law, wanting nothing to tie them down except for their bikes and their loyalty to the club. Their code? Rules I could live by and understand.

Only recently, something’s changed. Saint, the man I’d looked up to from the beginning, recognising a kindred spirit as he was as cold and unfeeling as I am myself, well, he’d met Pippa. He should have killed her to protect the club, but what did he do? He fucking married her, and they’d spat out a kid. A baby who does nothing but cry and shit. And Short? Well, he’d been caught by the same disease, not only making Bronwyn his old lady but also accepting her fucked-up child as his. And fuck me, but Freak, the man who’d kill you as soon as he looked at you, had married Trixie, a woman even I had sunk my cock into more times than I could count. I couldn’t understand what had driven any of them to tie themselves down.

I’ve never loved anyone, nor have I been loved. All my life, I’d only looked out for number one. So no, I can’t understand mourning the loss of a relative. In my case, if I knew who mysperm and egg donors were, I’d probably be glad to hear they were gone.

But something drives me to give her something. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Isn’t that the right thing to say?