The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 223

Chapter 115-1

Sleep doesn’t come. Not really.

Claim

It comes in restless, fractured fragments. Every time I drift off, I jerk awake, my chest tightening as my mind replays the image of Stitch digging metal out of Bishop’s leg on the living room sofa.

By six in the morning, the heavy gray light of dawn fills the bedroom, washing out the shadows and leaving everything in stark, unforgiving clarity.

Locke is awake beside me. He’s still lying on his back, still staring silently at the ceiling, one hand resting flat over his ribs, the other behind his head. He hasn’t touched me all night. We stayed on our respective sides of the king mattress, separated by an ocean of unsaid words, club protocol, and wounded pride.

I roll out of bed, the soles of my feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. My body aches like I’ve been beaten with a wooden post. My neck is stiff, my eyes are dry and gritty, and my stomach feels like a hollow knot

of acid.

I don’t look at Locke as I walk into the adjoining bathroom.

I turn the shower on, stepping into the scalding stream of water, letting it blast over my head and shoulders. I stay under the spray for twenty minutes, scrubbing my skin with a loofah until it turns raw and red, trying to wash away the lingering ghost of screams and static that feels trapped in my pores.

It doesn’t work. The fear isn’t on my skin; it’s settled deep inside my bones, heavy and cold.

I turn off the tap, dry off, and get dressed. I pull on a pair of dark, fitted jeans, a heavy black tank top, and a thick flannel button-up, leaving it unbuttoned over my chest. I tie my hair back into a tight braid at the nape of my neck, dab on a bit of blush and some lipstick, and slide my work boots onto my feet.

When I step back into the bedroom, Locke is dressed in his black jeans, his heavy leather boots, and a plain black t-shirt. His cut is folded over his arm, his heavy brass knuckles and folding blade sitting on the nightstand beside his phone.

He turns to look at me as I pull my watch onto my wrist. His face is pale, his eyes shadowed by deep, dark circles. He looks as exhausted as I feel, but his posture is still igid, anchored by the same immovable stone that held him up last night.

“Morning,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. It’s polite. Distant.

“Morning,” I reply, keeping my tone flat, my eyes focused on my watch clasp as I snap it shut.

“I’m making fresh coffee,” Locke offers, his hand pausing on his cut. “Toast?”

“That’d be nice,” I say, meeting his gaze for a brief, flickering second before looking away toward the closet. “Thank you.”

It’s sickeningly polite. It’s the kind of cautious, measured language strangers use when they’re trying not to bump into each other in a tight hallway. There’s no soft touch on the small of my back, no quick kiss against my hairline, no quiet check-in to see how my head is doing.

The line Dad drew in the living room last night is right here between us, wide and clear as a chasm.

12

Chapter 115

ocke nods once, a stiff, abrupt tilt of his head, and turns to walk out of the bedroom, leaving the door open behind him.

I take a deep breath, steadying my hands against the wooden dresser, before following him down the hallway into the kitchen.

Clawn

Mayhem is sitting at the island, a dark mug of black coffee held tightly between both hands. Jade is standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist, looking out over the skyline as the morning fog rolls off the mountains.

Neither of them speaks as Locke walks up to the stainless-steel coffee maker and pours two mugs.

I step into the kitchen, the heavy thud of my work boots sounding unnaturally loud against the tile floor. Jade turns around when she hears me, and the moment our eyes meet, a quiet wave of understanding passes between us.

Comments

LUCK DRAW >

Vote

314