Page 48 of Riding Bare

“What do you want now, Chassis?”

I almost tell him that I want him to fuck himself. I don’t. “I want you to pretend you never knew me. I want you to never think about me, about this baby. I want you to stay far away. I want you to disappear.”

His eyes widen, and he makes a tsking sound before he leans forward slightly, lifting his elbows and placing them on the table, his eyes never leaving mine. I watch him for a long moment, then take another bite of pancake, because I can’t leave without a second bite.

“You want a lot from me, kisa.” I hate that pet name, but as much as I don’t want to, I don’t hiss or curl my nose when he says it. I’m able to keep a straight face, but only barely. Thankfully, he doesn’t say it again. Instead, his lips curve up into an evil-looking smile before he continues.

“What are you willing to do to make all your wants a reality?”

CHAPTER

THIRTY-EIGHT

DARE

Something is wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it. I feel it deep in my bones. It’s like a living, breathing thing that surrounds me, but I can’t grasp it. Something is absolutely fucking wrong. I just don’t know what the hell it could be.

I know that Gauge is on his way here today. Chassis is at home, and she’s healthy and, as far as I know, happy. The club is doing better than it ever has. The Russian collaboration seems to be a good fit. Rustik has given his word that Samuil will not be an issue… but something is wrong, and I’m waiting for all of this to crumble in my hands.

“You good?” Wrath asks.

He’s sitting across the desk from me, his eyes focused on me—watching and waiting for me to say something, anything. I don’t know what to say. I’m not fucking good. In fact, all I can do is think about all the ways shit is about to go really fucking wrong—and how something is off, but I can’t put my finger on it. If I say anything out loud, I’m just going to sound like a paranoid fucking asshole.

“I’m not,” I confess.

I wouldn’t say that to anyone else but him, but fucking shit… something is going to happen. I can feel it deep in my marrow. Except I don’t know where to keep shit tight and who to start shooting at. My anxiety consumes me as I try to figure out what is happening and why I’m feeling the way I do.

I can only see one way out of this heart-racing, palpitating, anxious sensation—I want to start shooting.

“The Russian,” I state.

It’s the only thing that’s shifted. My woman is having a baby. It’s a boy, and this Russian is a fucking elephant with his foot on my goddamn chest.

Wrath doesn’t say anything immediately. Instead, he leans back, his lips pressed together. I watch as he stands, then moves through the room toward the window.

He turns his head, looking over his shoulder at me. His eyes find mine, and he smirks in my direction. He makes a guess that I don’t think I’ve even admitted to myself, at least not yet.

“You love your wife.”

“I love my wife,” I confess, saying it out loud for the first time, hell, thinking it for the first time. But he’s right. I love my wife.

I shouldn’t be embarrassed about that fact. Wrath loves his woman, and Loot loves his. I shouldn’t give a fuck that I love my woman or feel like shouting it from the rooftop. But something inside me wants to keep this private. Like the way I feel about her, it’s only for her.

“Good. You should,” he murmurs. “What happens with the fuck that tried to weasel his way into club business?” Wrath asks.

He dies.

Shifting my focus to him, I jerk my chin in his direction. “You know what I’m thinking.”

“No, I really don’t,” Wrath mutters. “I have no fucking clue.”

“We gotta get rid of Samuil. He’s a goddamn problem,” I state.

I don’t really know if it’s an actual issue, if he’s going to be a problem, but what I do know is that I won’t be able to think straight without him dead and gone. Wrath presses his lips together, nodding once, then clears his throat before he shifts his attention and turns completely to face me.

“He’s a problem but not an imminent threat. So I don’t think the Perov Bratva is going to just turn a blind eye to any of that shit,” Wrath states.

He’s right. Samuil isn’t an impending threat, at least not right this fucking minute. But that doesn’t mean he won’t be in the very near future. And I know he will be just that—a fucking threat. I want him gone before he has the chance to do anything.