Page 88 of Dash

My head swims just for a second, weight pressing down on my shoulders.

Then I seize her wrist, tucking her in front of me, as I rush us both up the street to the only place close by I know that might offer safety.

My eyes are everywhere, my throat choked. The only thing keeping me tethered to sanity right now is her body in front of mine, even if she’s trembling so badly she can barely walk.

Because this isn’t about us anymore. There’s a life growing inside her. A life we made together.

A life we may have just destroyed before we even got to know it.

TWENTY-THREE

DASH

“Dash, where are we going?”she asks in a small voice, fear threaded through her words.

“We’re nearly there. Just around the corner.”

I keep one arm wrapped around her, pressing her tight to me, as if it can hold back any storm that might come for us.

As we turn the corner, I see the bar ahead. It’s club-owned, not just someone we take protection money from.

I don’t see any danger, and somehow, that’s worse. I can’t see the enemy coming for us—for me.

I’m pretty sure this attack was fucking personal. They knew where I was. They slowed down to make sure I was their target, and then they shot a volley of bullets at me.

Fuck. And Dayna was with me.

Dayna, my fucking pregnant old lady.

I lead her around the back of the building, through the yard, past the bins. The door is open, and I hear music as we step into the dark corridor behind it.

I take point, stepping in front of her, my fingers wrapped around her wrist. When I shove inside the office, Sarah glances up. There’s a moment of confusion before she realises who I am.

“Need somewhere to lay low” is all I say. It’s all I have to.

She comes to her feet, glancing at me and then at Dayna, who is plastered against my side, her hand clammy in mine.

“Do you need anything?”

I shake my head. “Just don’t let anyone back here.”

She leaves, and I guide Dayna over to the couch pushed against one wall. I’m careful as I lower her onto it, watching how her hands still protect her stomach.

“You in pain?” Guilt claws at my gut, and my chest is tight as I wait for the answer.

But she shakes her head. My relief is short-lived when she covers her mouth, as if she can taste the fear on her tongue. “I think I’m going to puke.”

I grab the nearest thing I can find—a bin—and shove it under her chin as her body contracts.

I feel so fucking helpless as she throws her guts up like she’s possessed. I rub useless circles on her back, gritting my teeth as I will it to stop.

The smell of vomit is thick in the air, and her sobs between heaves cut through my composure.

Eventually, she stops, but her breaths are shallow and sharp, and her skin is clammy and grey.

I support her body when he slumps against me, like she has no power left in her.

“Sorry.”

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