Page 60 of Wild Night

I can’t wait.

I can hardly wait.

It’s nerve-racking. It’s scary. And it’s also exciting in a million different ways. I think I will feel better once I’ve spoken with Ivy and I know how he feels about everything. Then I can figure out my own game plan. It’s not knowing that has me so nervous. Well, and not to mention his possible reactions.

The pickup truck pulls away from the curb, and as much as I want to, I fight the urge to turn back and watch Void vanish into the distance. I could have fallen in love with that man. I mean, had I not already fallen in love with Ivy. But Void was the calm in the midst of my storm. He was kind and observant, but even if he were a prince, I would still love Ivy with my whole heart.

Ivy’s the one I love. It doesn’t matter that I hardly know him, that I once again fell for someone, and it’s probably a bad idea, mainly because I clearly do not know how to pick the right ones.

I may not know much else about what is going to happen, about how he will react, or about my future, but I do know that I need to go to him.

I must tell him how I feel, and he, without a doubt, deserves to know about this baby sooner rather than later. I just hope it doesn’t all blow up in my face. That it doesn’t leave me completely obliterated.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

IVY

I giveShocker explicit instructions to text me when they’re an hour from home and to bring her to my house, not the clubhouse or to Dakota. I need to lay eyes on her, to speak to her before she’s surrounded by the whole fucking club because I already know that shit is going to be pure chaos.

Selfishly, I need to know that she’s okay, or maybe I just want to make sure she knows she’s mine. I think after this ordeal, I may need to stake a claim—a real one. Seeing her in the flesh is my first priority.

I pace.

Back and forth.

It seems I’m getting really fucking good at pacing these days, too damn good. I pride myself on being the best at everything I do, but this is one thing I don’t give a damn if I’m good at or not.

My phone doesn’t ring as quickly as I would like it to. In fact, it doesn’t ring at all. One hour passes, then another. I’m not sure when exactly they’re supposed to be here, but I thought that Shocker told me they were close.

When my phone finally begins buzzing in my hand, I almost drop the damn thing. Letting out a sigh of relief, I slide my thumb across the screen before I lift it to my ear. “Ivy,” I grind out.

I’m sure I sound pissed off, but I’m not. I’m trying to hide my tension, my nervousness, and ultimately, my excitement.

“Got your girl. Mav is twenty minutes from your place.”

Thanking him, I end the call. It’s abrupt, I know it is, but right now, I’m trying not to fucking panic. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks. She went back to deal with that fucker. I don’t know what state she’s in, but I do know that Lucian Whitmore needs to die.

I don’t even know what he did to her, but the fact that he thought he was going to use her as a bargaining chip with the winery is enough for me to know that he fucked around and found out.

And fucking around with Posey? Not okay. The fact that I wasn’t there to deal with him, to deal with the situation, makes me sick to my stomach. I should have been there. It should have been me. He should never have had the chance to talk to her, let alone touch her.

I hate myself for it.

Down to my fucking marrow, I hate myself.

I let work trump family. I’m surprised Bullet hasn’t called me out on that. I’m surprised he didn’t pistol-whip me for it. He should have, and once he finds out what happened, depending on the circumstances, he might just do that.

So now, in twenty minutes, I’m going to find out what fucking happened to my woman, and I’m going to have to tell her that she is indeed my woman and can never leave Thunder Rock, North Carolina, ever again.

She’s mine.

Claimed.

Never letting her fucking go, either. Not now, not in a year, not in a goddamn lifetime.

Posey is mine, and I’m going to keep her.

There is the sound of a pickup truck outside, followed by a couple of motorcycles. I don’t even have to strain to hear them. They’re loud and they’re Reapers. Turning my head, I stare at the front door, expecting it to fly open.

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