Home > I Am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC #2)(4)

I Am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC #2)(4)
Author: C.M. Stunich

“It does. Because he deserves to get his ass kicked. You don’t need a baby, Gidge; you need to go to college—”

“Don’t tell me what I need,” I snap back at him, wishing I could just Sparta kick his ass down the stairs. “Leave me alone, Sin. Fuck off.” I turn away and storm toward my bedroom.

When I fling the door open, I’m surprised to find that it isn’t as empty as I thought it would be.

Beast is here.

I swallow hard and shift uncomfortably as his blue eyes lift up to find my rust-colored ones.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask, struggling to keep my voice even. Beast looks at me in a way that I don’t quite understand, and then rises to his feet. He moves over to stand in front of me, reaching past my trembling form to push the door closed. Then, he locks it.

“We should talk,” he drawls, and I feel sweat glistening on my forehead. Hastily, I scrub my arm across my face.

Shit.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This is pretty much the last thing I expected today.

“You want to talk now?” I query, choking on the words. It’s so hard to concentrate with his huge form taking up so much space, the smell of him—that stupid tea and books scent—wafting around the room. He adjusts his gaze back to me, and I panic, ducking past him and heading for the bathroom like I’m on a mission.

And I am.

A pissing mission.

I throw the grocery bag into the sink and dig around inside for the box.

Beast moves up to the doorway, and I decide that I don’t care. This is his fault, too. He’s a part of this, too. When I take the pregnancy test out, I turn around and lift the box up for his inspection. He looks at it, then at me, and my heart stutters.

No, Gidget, it’s all shit. They are all full of shit, and you know that.

“This is what I wanted to talk to you about,” he suggests, inclining his chin slightly. He leans his big shoulder against the doorjamb. “I figured you might come to me; I wanted to give you space. Thing is, these sorts of things are time sensitive.”

“You wanted me to come to you?” I say, and I don’t mean to laugh, but his honeyed Southern drawl is making me feel crazy, making me relive that night, making me remember the feel of his tongue between my thighs. It’s an impossible feeling, this craving for people you can’t have. At best, I could pick one of them and ask Cat for permission to be their old lady. He’d never allow it. It would just tick him off and cause drama inside the club. Even then, I’m not sure any of them would want me. Lastly, and most importantly, I’m not sure that I want any of them.

Because marrying into the club means sealing yourself to it—permanently.

After that, the only way out is death. The only way out now might still be death, but at least there’s some distant flicker of chance, some possibility of escape.

I’m tired of being treated like an object, tired of being ordered around, mostly tired of being left out of every important aspect that affects my life. My sisters died because of club bullshit; I almost died because of club bullshit. Yet, I’m not included in any of the decision making, the risk assessment, the revenge.

“Before you take that test,” Beast begins, and I shudder at the sound of his voice. It reminds me of how he felt when he was inside of me, and I hate that. I don’t want to remember it because then I’ll want to repeat it. “Know that I’m on your side. Period.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask, sending a stricken look his way. “You can never be on my side because you’ll always be on the club’s side. Always.” Without bothering to ask him to leave, I shove my panties down and sit on the toilet, peeing on the stupid stick and then setting it on the counter with a shaking hand.

Beast does not look away for any of it. Bastard.

I stand up and fix my panties, washing my hands before putting my palms on the countertop and staring at myself in the mirror. I look into my own eyes, and I don’t see a teenager, I see a woman trapped in a world she doesn’t want any part of. It doesn’t want her, so why should she?

When I look over at Beast, I see that he’s still watching me.

I ignore him, setting a timer on my phone for three minutes, and pretending to be interested in a text from Reba. She knows all about that night. I told her the very next day because there are no secrets between us. Because she’s the only person in the world that loves me without ulterior motives, who doesn’t judge me, but also isn’t afraid to give real, hard advice.

“Gidget, honey, you run from those men, and you don’t look back; they’re like a slow poison.”

I know she’s right. I do. And yet somehow, someway, I crave more.

The timer goes off, and I snatch the test in my hands.

Not Pregnant.

A sigh of relief escapes me before I turn and offer the pee-soaked stick to the man in charge of murdering people for the club. He takes it from me, our fingers brushing in a way that sends hot thrills spiraling through me.

The expression on his face is … well, it’s weird. I don’t understand it. Like, at all.

“Gidge,” he purrs, but whatever it is that he’s going to say, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to be hurt anymore.

“There you go. No kid to deal with. No need to tell Cat anything.” I point in the direction of the bedroom door around the corner. “Now go. Get out of here and leave me alone.” He just keeps staring at me, still holding the pregnancy test, and I feel this unbearable fury just rise up within me. “Please,” I beg, because I can’t stand here and look at him and feel nothing.

I’ve tried.

I’ve tried to look each and every one of these men in the face and tell myself they mean nothing, that they were just dark fun, an experiment in rebellion, a test.

But it’s a lie. A lie. A huge motherfucking lie.

“Please!” I scream at him, stepping back and digging my fingernails into the fabric of my too-short skirt. “Get out and leave me alone, Catcher. Go find some desperate groupie at the clubhouse to have babies with.”

He taps the test against his palm for a moment, and then slips it into the pocket of his leather vest before turning and leaving my bedroom. He closes the door so softly behind him that I can barely hear the shushing sound of it falling into place.

For a while, I just stand there in the bathroom by myself. Eventually, I get it together enough to take the second and third tests that I bought. All with the same result. My relief is immense, even as I struggle with a deluge of other emotions.

I end up sitting on the edge of my bed, my elbows on my knees, my hands steepled and pressed to my lips. The pregnancy thing is dealt with. Awesome. What about an STD check? Should I get one? Do I need one?

The door opens again, and I look up, expecting Beast or Sin.

Instead, it’s …

“Crown,” I say, my skin tightening with goose bumps. He smiles at me, but the expression is tinged with something else. Something inexplicable. I hate that I can smell him, sense him, feel his presence in a way that’s metaphysical. “What do you want?”

Of them all, he’s the worst, I think. Because when he heard Cat’s bike, he treated me like a dirty secret, banished me to my bedroom. Made me cry. Only he doesn’t know that. None of them do. I’d rather tear my own fingernails off than tell them.

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