Is it there? A cluster of cells sharing my DNA?
If she’s pregnant, there really is no getting away from me. Taking my child away won't be an option.
But if she’s not...
Fear coils around my spine like a snake made of ice.
If she’s not pregnant, and the marriage license comes to light... she might run. Fast and far.
I pull her closer, burying my nose in her hair.
"You belong to me, little bird," I whisper into her hair. "You don't get to leave."
Everything I wanted is within reach. She’s my wife and quite possibly carrying my child.
But it’s not enough.
It never is.
My eyes close, but sleep refuses to come. Holding her, counting her breaths, waiting for the other shoe to drop becomes my sole focus.
Because in my experience, the other shoe always drops. And usually, it’s got a steel fucking toe.
Momentum is a hell of a drug.
It feels like champagne bubbles in my veins, fizzy and light. For the first time in months, treading water isn't the only option. I’m actually starting to swim.
My beat-up sedan pulls out of the gravel driveway of the boutique owner’s lakeside cottage, tires crunching on the snow-packed road. Three new clients in one week. Three contracts signed. Three deposits hitting my bank account—the new one Ryder can’t touch.
It’s not millions. It’s not even thousands. But it’s mine.
Iearnedit.
Gabriel wasn't needed to smooth the way. His name and connections stayed out of it, unless you count the whole working for the Savage Society thing, which I don’t because it hasn’t happened yet. No, this happened with a pitch deck, a smile, and the sheer, stubborn refusal to let my life fully implode.
The drive back to Gabriel’s place is scenic, the kind of view people pay to put on postcards. The road winds around Crescent Lake, hugging the shoreline and lined with snow-dusted pines. Snow starts to fall, fat white flakes drifting down from a slate-gray sky, settling on the windshield.
I hum along toLast Christmasbefore turning it up and singing it full out because why the hell not?
Making this work is the only option. Rebuilding the business, paying off debts, and figuring out what the hell is happening between me and Gabriel Hollis without drowning in his shadow.
I glance in the rearview mirror and notice a car coming up fast behind me.
Too fast.
My foot eases off the gas to let them pass. The road is narrow here, a two-lane strip of asphalt with a steep drop-off to the lake on one side and the forest on the other.
The car doesn't pass, though.
It rides my bumper, so close the headlights are obscured, leaving only the dark grill of a luxury sedan visible. But out here it could belong to literally anyone. My car’s the one that stands out in Emerald Hills.
"Asshole," I mutter, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
Speeding up seems like the safest bet even with the treacherous slick surface of the road, trying to put distance between us. As soon as I press down on the gas, the car behind me speeds up, too.
It’s aggressive as hell and unease pricks at the back of my neck.
Another check of the mirror shows the car swerving slightly, trying to intimidate me or get me to move toward one side of the road or the other.
