Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 142818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Colby, like a large majority of the Sons of Templar, was hot as fuck. Muscles. Tattoos, that air of alpha male badassery that cut through all of my deep-seated feminism. His dark hair was on the longer side, and it brushed over his face in a way that made it so he was always running his hands through it. He was tall, quick to smile in a way that made women melt. His family were from South Korea, and he confided in me they weren’t happy that their only son patched into a biker club.
Arguably, I should’ve had some kind of reaction to Colby. He was the most appropriate of all the outlaws for me to have a reaction toward. Well, him and Lucas who was lankier than the rest, wore skinny jeans, Dr Martens and thick glasses that made him look like a hipster badass. Not many people could pull that off. I liked Lucas too, but Colby and I hit it off. As friends.
I didn’t have a reaction toward him because he was far too appropriate. Despite him wearing the patch and having a weapon strapped to him at all times.
But still, he was closest in age to me, and we immediately connected. Of course, he tried to flirt his way into sleeping with me, but he didn’t go feral and cruel when I gently told him I needed a friend who wasn’t trying to sleep with me and who didn’t think I would sleep with him if he pretended to be my friend long enough.
He took it completely in his stride, and we hung out. Like an outlaw and a previously sheltered ‘good girl’ might. He taught me how to shoot, and we had started riding lessons. Because up until now, it was only the men who rode Harleys. The women were all on the backs of their bikes. Colby had tried to explain to me how important that was in this life. I’d pushed back about how fucking archaic it was, in addition to only men being allowed to patch in. He’d chuckled good naturedly and hadn’t tried to argue with me further.
If I had the choice, I probably wouldn’t have told even him about my pregnancy, but I’d needed a ride home from the clinic. I’d needed someone to walk in with me because I wasn’t strong enough to walk in alone.
Not because I doubted my choice. I was 100 percent certain it was the correct one to make at this juncture in my life.
There are women, many women who are strong enough to go through that entire process alone. Who have no choice. Who, in my opinion, are fucking superheroes.
I was not one of those women. So I made the choice. I blurted it out to Colby who, to his credit, didn’t blink at the information. He had tactfully tried to ask about the father, with that familiar alpha fury in his eyes. Then later, when he’d walked me through the line of protesters—who immediately stepped back from us when he turned his glare in their direction—he’d asked less tactfully about the father. Sure, he could guess. I’d just come back from France, from a man who I’d been certain I was in love with.
Colby had fussed over me like a mother hen once we got back to the clubhouse, arranging a soft blanket over me on the sofa, bringing a plethora of snacks and then curling up beside me for a Vampire Diaries marathon.
He was Team Damon. Obviously.
He was gentle and safe, comforting, protective. He was hot, a hint of a boyish rogue still remaining even though I figured that all the things he’d done to wear that patch had taken boyhood right out of him. But still, a glint of mischief, of softness remained.
To me, he was like a brother. One I’d never had.
It was not Colby who I dreamed about. It was the man standing in front of me, looking like the most handsome nightmare.
“He’s your friend,” Elden repeated through gritted teeth.
It occurred to me that Elden had glared at Colby a lot whenever we were together. I figured that was just because Elden was a broody type of guy. Maybe not.
I titled my chin up at him in defiance. I got it. He felt possessive over me for the same reason I felt possessive over him. There was something between us. Something we both tried to ignore and clutch onto at the same time.
But now wasn’t really the moment for him to throw his weight around. Not when I was wearing a pad the size of a diaper and fighting my way through cramps that were PMS on steroids.
“Yes,” I snapped. “Colby is my friend. The kind of friend who drives me to an abortion clinic without asking questions, without glowering with alpha male fury, who takes me to get a milkshake afterward and doesn’t force his company on me when I want to be alone.”