Page 49 of Triplets for the Rival MC

There are at least a dozen bikes lined up outside, engines cutting one by one. And then I see my father. He’s finally come for me. Much, much too late.

He swings off his bike like he owns the ground beneath him, casual and unafraid. He looks the same, he has the same broad shoulders, the same severe posture, the same cruel smirk. His hair is grayer than I remember, his face harder, more lined.

The last time I saw him was the day I left, the day the guys kidnapped me, hoping to ransom me back. The day he told us I wasn’t worth paying to get back.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until Cyrus’s hand settles on my lower back. His solid presence is comforting, giving me the strength I need to face the man who once was my world. Flint and Hunter go first, followed by the others. Cyrus and I follow, stepping outside.

The air is thick with heat and tension. The late afternoon sun beats down hard enough to make everything shimmer. Gravel crunches under boots. Both clubs face each other in a loose semicircle. The hostility between us is palpable; one wrong move and this explodes.

My father’s eyes find me instantly. They drop to my stomach. His face changes, contorting in a mask of shocked disbelief, as if he’d been convinced the rumors were false until now, then into furious outrage.

“What the hell is this?” he demands, voice booming across the lot.

Flint steps slightly in front of me but doesn’t block me. I appreciate that. “This is my clubhouse. You are not welcome here,” Flint says evenly. “State your business and leave.”

He doesn’t look at him. He’s staring at me like I’m shit he stepped in. “You,” he spits. “You fucking whore.”

A ripple moves through the Ghost Riders, but no one breaks formation. They’re allowing me to decide, giving me a choice, a voice, something my father never did. I lift my chin.

“Nice to see you too, Dad.” The word tastes strange.

His eyes narrow. “You look even fatter than I remember.”

Hunter stiffens beside me. One nod from me and he’d gladly tear out my father’s eyes for that comment.

“I’m four months pregnant,” I say calmly, placing my hand on my stomach.

He laughs sharply. “Four months? You’d have to have spread your legs for half the state to get that size.”

My cheeks burn, but I refuse to flinch.

“Careful,” Cyrus warns quietly.

My father finally glances at the three of them. “So it’s true,” he sneers. “You’re letting them pass you around.”

“I’m not letting them do anything to me,” I reply before any of them can. “I choose them.”

Whispers ripple through his men. I see it, the doubt, the curiosity. He hears it too. His jaw tightens, his fists clench.

“You think this is funny?” he snaps at his own men. “You think this is something to gossip about? She disrespects me, she disrespects us all.” No one answers. He looks to Flint, seizing on a perceived weakness. “Are you sure the bastard in her belly is yours? With a bump that big, I’d say she’s more than six months pregnant, trying to pass off some other man’s kid as yours. Heck, it’s probably Spike’s. You know she was his first. Once a whore always a whore.” His eyes gleam triumphantly as he sees he’s riled my men, but not for the reasons he thinks.

“Insult her again, and I’ll rip your fucking tongue out,” Hunter says with a casual confidence that suggests he would follow through.

I place my hand over my stomach deliberately. “There are three,” I say clearly.

Silence falls. Even some of the Ghost Riders glance at me, even though they already know.

My father blinks once. “Three what?”

“Babies,” I say. “We’re having triplets. Three fathers to three babies, a miracle.”

The word lands like a grenade. It’s like the air gets sucked out of the lot. His face drains of color before flushing deep red. “Bullshit.”

“Trichorionic-triamniotic,” I say, because I want to hurt him with knowledge he doesn’t understand. “Three separate placentas. Three separate sacs.”

More whispers. One of his men mutters, “Jesus. Three heirs?”

He whirls on them. “Shut up!” He looks back at me, something ugly twisting in his expression. “You expect anyone to believe that’s theirs?” he demands, jerking his chin toward Flint, Hunter, and Cyrus. “You probably crawled into someone else’s bed to trap them.”