Page 66 of Sabre’s Guard

When we stand up, my club brothers form a corridor from the porch to my bike, which the prospects have moved up to the yard for us.

I keep one arm around my old lady.

“We’re going to the hospital first,” I tell her. “I want all three of you to get checked out by a doctor. You can go with Zen in the van, and I’ll follow behind on my bike.”

We’re almost to my bike when Gerald shouts from the back seat of a cruiser.

“This isn’t over. Linny belongs with her family!”

Linsey doesn’t look back, but I look at the man struggling to get back out of the cruiser.

“She’s with her family, and come what may, you need to remember that sharin’ blood ain’t the only way to make a family.”

He opens his mouth and then closes it again, watching as my Savage Legion brothers close ranks around us. These arrogant assholes thought they could take my old lady, and I wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.

Now they know better. By the time the feds are finished, all of them will be serving hard time.

Me? I’m taking Linsey and Noah home, where they’ll be fuckin’ loved and cherished the way they deserve. And when our baby gets here, the three of us will make damn sure that kid never doubts for one second how wanted they are.

Ain’t nobody in this world gonna take what’s mine to protect.

Epilogue

Linsey

Six Months Later

“Sabre, if you put one more thing on that grill, I’m calling the fire department.”

We’re at the clubhouse on a sunny Saturday afternoon. One of the prospects is being patched in today and Sabre is taking up grill duties. Right now he’s taking them very seriously and I’m leaving him to it. It’s my weekend off at the restaurant.

“I know people at the fire department, darlin’,” he says as he shifts the ribeyes along the grill.

“That isn’t the reassurance you think it is,” I mutter.

There are easily fifty people here, but apparently Sabre is cooking for twice that number. I rest one hand on the small of my back and the other on the enormous bump that used to be my stomach. Almost immediately, the baby shifts beneath my palm. At nearly eight months pregnant, I’ve reached the stage where everything is an effort. Standing. Sitting. Getting out of a chair. Putting on shoes. Rolling over in bed. Existing. Luckily from Monday, my hours at the restaurant have been reduced, that’s the good thing about being the head chef—you have some say so. Though I’ve been going through the menu with the sous chef who’ll be stepping into my shoes when I’m on maternity leave.

Sabre has been extra protective recently and notices everything. As if on cue, he glances over his shoulder, and his eyes immediately drop to my stomach.

“You okay, darlin’?”

“I’ve been standing for approximately forty-five seconds,” I say.

“That ain’t what I asked.”

“I’m fine. I’m eight months pregnant, I’m always uncomfortable.”

His expression softens. “Come here.”

I head over to where he’s standing behind the industrial-sized grill. He wipes his hands on the towel tucked into his waistband before settling them on either side of my stomach. He crouches slightly, bringing his face closer to the bump.

“You givin’ your mama trouble again?”

A hard little foot pushes against my side and Sabre grins. “See? She knows my voice.”

“We don’t know if we’re having a girl or a boy yet,” I tell him.

“She’s a girl, I can feel it.”