Page 10 of Haunted By the Storm
As I leave the kitchen, I can feel his eyes on me, assessing, calculating. I wonder what he sees. A scared single mom in over her head? A burden he's been saddled with because of his loyalty to my brother? Or something else entirely?
I push the thought aside. It doesn't matter what Storm thinks of me. This arrangement is temporary, purely practical. He'll help keep Eric away, and then he'll go back to his life, and Emily and I will go back to ours.
Simple, clean, uncomplicated.
So why does it feel like I've just struck a deal with a storm that's about to sweep away everything in its path?
CHAPTER FOUR
storm
Camryn Fletcher is nothing like I expected.
From Blaze's stories, I'd imagined someone fragile, maybe a little broken. A woman in need of protection, cowering in fear. But the woman standing in front of me, throwing clothes into a duffel bag while firing off instructions about her daughter's bedtime routine, is anything but broken.
She's fucking beautiful, for one thing, with long brown hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail and curves in all the right places despite the simple jeans and t-shirt she's wearing. But it's her eyes that get me: hazel with flecks of gold, sharp and intelligent, assessing me with a wariness that tells me she's seen enough shit in her life to know better than to trust a stranger.
Even if that stranger is supposed to be her boyfriend.
"Emily needs her stuffed rabbit to sleep," she's saying now, pulling said rabbit from her daughter's bed and stuffing it into a backpack covered in butterflies. "And she has to brush her teeth for exactly two minutes. She'll try to convince you one minute is enough, but don't let her get away with it."
I lean against the doorframe of the kid's room, watching her move with efficient purpose. "I think I can handle a bedtime routine," I tell her.
She pauses, fixing me with a look that's half skepticism, half amusement. "Have you ever put a child to bed before?"
"No," I admit. "But I've negotiated with drug dealers and Russian mobsters. How much harder can a seven-year-old be?"
A reluctant smile tugs at her lips. "You're in for a rude awakening."
I shrug, trying to ignore the way that small smile transforms her face. "I'm a quick learner."
She goes back to packing, but I notice her shoulders are a little less tense. Small victory.
"Where, exactly, are we going?" she asks, zipping up the backpack.
"The clubhouse," I tell her. "It's the safest place right now. Full of brothers who'll make sure nothing happens to you or Emily."
Her movements falter. "A motorcycle clubhouse? With a child?"
"It's not what you're thinking," I say. "We've got families there. Kids too. There are plenty of empty rooms above the main floor. You and Emily can stay there."
She doesn't look convinced. "I don't know... Is that really the best environment for Emily?"
"Better than somewhere her father can get to her," I say bluntly. "The clubhouse is like a fortress. No one gets in without us knowing about it."
She considers this, her protective instincts warring with practicality. Finally, she nods. "Alright. But I have conditions."
"Name 'em."
"No drugs around Emily. No weapons where she can see them. And no... club activities while we're there."
I bite back a smile at her delicate phrasing. "You mean no whores and wild parties?"
Color stains her cheeks. "Exactly."
"Done," I say easily. "The club knows this is serious business. They'll behave."
"Uncle Blaze says you're scary," a small voice pipes up from behind me.
