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At least, I assume it’s an old lady. I don’t know her name, but all I can picture is some grandma with a needle and thread sewing pieces of leather together while shaking her head and calling us heathens. Even though she accepts our money.
Crucify and Rites have mentioned before that she sometimes has damn good cookies. I’m not looking for a fucking snack, but maybe that means she isn’t judgmental about the lifestyle. Maybe she’s a doting grandma type.
I don’t know what that’s like. My grandparents died while I was still young, on both sides. I don’t remember any of them. Then I lost my parents and my sister.
Devastation tries to take me under as I trod up the steps to the small house and knock on the door. I try and push it away, but my vision starts to darken as the image of the way I found Sofia flashes in my mind. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the memory.
It always pops up at the worst fucking time. When the world is still around me. When I’m trying to chase my dreams in sleep. When I’m trying to just fucking breathe.
But there she is.
Lifeless.
Gone.
Hopeless.
When the door swings open, I blink at the sight in front of me. Not a fucking grandma. Not at all.
The woman in front of me has black hair, a petite body which probably only tops out at 5’4” or so, over a foot shorter than me. There are tattoos on her hands and up her arms, at least as much as I can see from where she’s pushed up the long-sleeved shirt she’s wearing. Her brown eyes look up at me with curiosity and a little surprise.
I can’t pull my eyes away from her as her gaze roams down my body until reaching the patch on my cut displaying my name and position in the club. Her lips, the bottom one plumper than the top one which makes me want to nip it, curl into a smile.
Wait.I want to nip at her bottom lip?My eyebrows pull together as I really take stock of my reaction to the woman in front of me.
Want and need rush through me like a raging river.
Not fear.
Not disgust.
Not memory filled remorse.
Want and fucking need.
That can’t be right. Can it? It’s been more years than I care to think about since I lost Sofia. Since I failed her.
I’ve never met a woman I’ve wanted or needed since. Sure, I’ve found women attractive; I’m not fucking dead. But feeling something primal rip open inside of me and spill free?
No. That has never happened in my life. Even before everything went down with Sofia.
Somehow, even thinking about my sister and the void her loss left in my life doesn’t have desolation threatening to drown me.
Who the fuck is this woman and what the hell is going on here?
“Monk,” her voice is like silk, “enforcer for the DSMC.” She gives a little nod, her gaze coming back up to meet mine. “Nice to meet you. I’m Rebel.”
Her hand looks small and delicate in the space between us. An offering. For me. I’m both eager and fucking terrified to accept it.
I’ve never let fear stop me before, and my much larger hand engulfs hers. Touching her has my abs clenching and I almost fall to my fucking knees.
“You’re not a grandma,” I grunt.
Her eyebrows go up in surprise and her brown eyes dance with amusement. “Nope,” she pops the p, “not even a mother.”
My eyes immediately go down to her abdomen and the image of her pregnant with my baby fills my head and I let out a small groan. It’s totally fucking inappropriate. I don’t give a flying fuck.
I’m a man who has learned to trust my instincts, especially in the years since I’ve been an enforcer for the club. I need to trust what I see, what I feel, what my gut is telling me, because if I don’t then people could be in danger. I trust what I see and process it quickly, reading people and situations with ease.
