Chapter 74

For a few hours she seems okay, tired, quiet, pale, but okay. 

She dozes against me while a cooking show plays low on the TV. My hand moves through her hair because she seems to like it, and because touching her calms something in me I didn’t know was restless. 

I text Cobra updates because if I don’t, the man will arrive with half the club and possibly a priest. I ignore Mayhem’s three messages asking whether she needs anything, because the list includes one free murder of an ex-husband, no questions asked. 

I show Zara that one when we’re standing in the kitchen, cracking fresh ice cubes. She laughs, then suddenly stops. Her hand flies to her mouth, and I move her before she can even say my name. 

The first time she vomits, she tries to apologize. 

I don’t let her finish. I hold her hair back, one hand firm between her shoulder blades while she shakes over the kitchen sink, and when it’s over she leans against the counter, breathing hard, humiliated tears slipping down her face. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.