Page 6 of Haunted By the Storm
Some men deserve whatever hell comes their way. From what I've heard, this Eric guy is one of them. And if there's one thing I'm good at, it's delivering hell to those who've earned it.
Thunder growls again, like an echo to my thoughts. The storm's here.
And so am I.
CHAPTER THREE
camryn
"Mommy, can I wear my butterfly shirt today?" Emily asks, bouncing on her toes beside me as I pour her cereal. Her dark hair is still tangled from sleep, and there's a smudge of toothpaste at the corner of her mouth.
"Of course, baby," I say, reaching down to wipe away the toothpaste with my thumb. "But remember to brush your hair after breakfast."
She nods solemnly, taking this instruction with the gravity only a seven-year-old can muster, before digging into her Cheerios. I watch her for a moment, my heart swelling with love and fear in equal measure. After yesterday's encounter with Eric, I barely slept. I kept jumping at every noise coming from outside, convinced he was coming for us in the night. The storm didn't help. It raged until the early hours, each crack of thunder jolting me from the half-sleep I'd managed to sink into. By morning, I was exhausted, my nerves frayed, but I forced myself to go through our normal routine. For Emily's sake, I need to at least pretend everything is fine.
My phone buzzes on the counter. A text from Blaze:Be there in 20 with help.
I frown. When I called him last night, I hadn't expected him to bring anyone with him. I'd just wanted advice, maybe an extra pair of eyes to watch the house while I figured out what to do. But knowing my brother, "help" means someone from the motorcycle club.
Great. Just what I need; some leather-clad, tattooed biker bringing his chaos into our carefully ordered life.
"Who's that?" Emily asks, oblivious to the milk dribbling down her chin.
"Just Uncle Blaze," I tell her, handing her a napkin. "He's coming to visit this morning."
Her face lights up. "Uncle Blaze? Can we go for a ride on his motorcycle?"
"Not today, honey," I say, ignoring the pang of guilt I feel at her disappointed expression. "He's just coming to talk to Mommy about some grown-up stuff."
She wrinkles her nose. "Grown-up stuff is boring."
"You're not wrong," I agree, ruffling her hair. "Why don't you finish your breakfast and get dressed? Maybe you can show Uncle Blaze your new drawing when he gets here."
This perks her up. She nods enthusiastically before shoveling the last few bites of cereal into her mouth and racing off to her room. I watch her go, wondering not for the first time how something so perfect came from something so terrible.
I'm clearing the breakfast dishes when I hear the rumble of motorcycles outside. Not just one, but at least two. My stomach twists with anxiety. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that these are Blaze's friends. If he trusts them, I should at least give them a chance.
Still, I check my appearance in the hallway mirror before opening the door. My long brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and I'm wearing jeans and a simple blue t-shirt. I look tired; the shadows under my eyes testament to my sleeplessnight, but presentable enough. Not that I care what some biker thinks of me.
The doorbell rings just as I finish my inspection. I square my shoulders and open the door.
Blaze stands on my porch, his prospect cut making him look harder than the little brother I grew up with. Next to him stands one of the most intimidating men I've ever seen.
He's tall, at least six-foot-three, with broad shoulders and arms corded with muscle beneath a black t-shirt. Dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard frames a face that seems permanently set in a scowl judging by the lines on his face, he has a huge skull tattooed on his neck. But it's his eyes that hold my attention; piercing blue and assessing me with an intensity that makes me want to step back.
"Hey, Cam," Blaze says, breaking the silence. "This is Storm. He's gonna help us with the Eric situation."
Storm. Of course his name is Storm. As if the universe wants to remind me of everything I fear in one neat package.
"I didn't ask for help," I say, aware of how ungrateful I sound but unable to stop myself. "I just wanted to talk to you."
"Yeah, well, you're getting help anyway," Blaze replies, pushing past me into the house. Storm follows, his massive frame making my entryway feel cramped.
Up close, he smells like leather, motor oil, and some kind of subtle cologne that's surprisingly not unpleasant. He moves with a fluid grace that belies his size, like a predator comfortable in its strength.
"Nice place," he says, his voice deep and gravelly, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine.
"Thanks," I mutter, closing the door behind them. "We can talk in the kitchen."
