Walk Through Fire (Chaos, #4)(72)

He grinned down at that pill case, remembering their conversation from a week before.

“You want it to be a surprise?” she’d asked.

“Want what to be a surprise?” he’d asked back.

She was on him, naked in their bed, and she pulled herself up so they were face to face.

“When I get pregnant,” she whispered, and he felt his gut get warm, so f*cking warm it felt like mush at the thought of his Millie with his baby growing inside her. “Do you want to plan for it or do you want it to come as a surprise?”

He slid a hand up her back and into her hair. “What you want, beautiful?”

“A surprise,” she whispered.

“Then that’s what we’ll have.”

She grinned a happy, triumphant grin and he knew then what he knew standing in the bathroom a week later.

His Millie did not f*ck around.

He flipped the case closed and tossed it back into the medicine cabinet.

Then Logan moved out of the bathroom in order to find his woman and aid her in her efforts of not f*cking around.

But he intended to do it by f*cking around a lot.

He was going to enjoy this. He knew it from a shit load of practice they’d already had.

He was also going to enjoy watching her grow heavy with his kid. He was going to enjoy helping her fill their home with babies. He was going to enjoy being at her side watching them grow up.

And she was going to be a f*cking brilliant mom. She had a good one. Her sister was the shit. Her father was solid. She was the best woman a man could find.

She’d kick motherhood’s ass.

He found her in the kitchen cooking.

He f*cked her on the floor.

Dinner was ruined.

Neither cared. They just hopped on his bike and went out for food.

Logan never mentioned he saw she’d dumped her pills.

Then, for six months, he watched her try to hide the slowly increasing changes in her manner, to shield him from the worry that he sometimes caught leaking into her eyes as all else remained the same.

Including them f*cking like rabbits anytime they could and his girl never coming up pregnant.

He did it not knowing that he’d live for twenty years before he found out she fed him bullshit as to what all that meant.

He did it not knowing, through all that, he should have mentioned those f*cking pills.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

Hole in My Soul


Millie

I OPENED MY eyes feeling disoriented and not knowing where I was.

But I smelled bacon.

I shoved up a bit and saw I was in my bedroom.

I’d come home.

Right, I’d come home.

But what was with the bacon?

Suddenly, it hit me like I was at the bottom of an avalanche, covering me, smothering me, and in a flurry, I threw back the covers and launched myself out of bed.

I stood there and looked down at myself.

I was in the clothes I’d worn to travel. No boots. No

jacket.

I looked around.

My room had been tidied.

However, the last thing I remembered, I was fading away in Logan’s arms in Logan’s bed at Chaos.

How did I get here?

On that thought I spied a beat-up black leather bag on my chaise, gaping open, clothes hanging out, some in puddles on the floor.

Cautiously, I moved to the bag.

I pawed through the clothes. Heathered gray thermal Henley. Faded black thermal Henley. Midnight blue thermal Henley. Two pairs of exceptionally faded jeans. A belt. Black socks. Black boxer briefs.

Slowly, I turned my head to look down the hall.

It was empty.

But the bacon smell was assailing me.

Without thought, my stocking feet took me in that direction, soundless against the wood floors.

I made it to the end of the hall and stopped, peeking around the corner.

And there I saw Logan moving around my kitchen, hair wet and slicked back, unshaven.

What on earth was he doing here?

No.

Unh-unh.

I didn’t care.

Not right then.

He wanted to be in my house cooking bacon after the extreme of the day before?

Whatever.

One thing I’d learned the past few weeks, I needed to look after me.

And what I needed was to get out of these clothes. I needed a shower. Both of these things would make me feel tons better and (maybe) able to face whatever Logan had in store for me next.

Bacon, of course, the universal cure-all, would probably do that even better.

However, since Logan was cooking it, I wasn’t going there.

I retraced my steps and locked myself in my bathroom.

Or, more aptly, I locked Logan out of it.

There I saw on the double sink vanity (at the sink I didn’t use) a can of Barbasol (though why he had that and put it in the bathroom since he clearly didn’t use it, I did not know). Ditto these thoughts on the opened pack of razors and the electric shaver. There was also a comb.

And as I approached the shower, I saw a bottle of shampoo that wasn’t mine and a bar of green veined soap.

Who used bars of soap anymore?

I knew who.

Bikers.

Fabulous.

It appeared Logan had moved in.

I decided for my own peace of mind, considering how fuzzy that mind was and how unable I was to use it at that current juncture, to ignore that too.