I glance over at Prescott who looks about as pale as humanly possible. I can’t stop my smile though. A girl. We’re having a girl. I had a feeling that’s what it was, but knowing for sure… it’s indescribable.

Prescott doesn’t say anything though, and the doctor finishes up the exam, checking all of the baby’s organ developments and whatever else he does. My mind is still reeling though—a girl.

Then a niggle of doubt rolls through me. Is Prescott not saying anything because he’s upset? Is he angry that she’s not a he? The appointment finishes and the doctor hands me some images from the ultrasound before we leave. Prescott continues to stay quiet as we leave, and he walks me to my Jeep, still fucking silently.

When we stop in front of my door, I place my hand on his chest. He jerks slightly, then his eyes go to my hand before they meet my gaze. Swirling in his dark green gaze is concern, worry even.

“Pres?”

He shakes his head once as if to clear his mind before he speaks. “It’s all real,” he whispers sounding almost surprised, definitely in shock.

“What’s real?”

“You’re having my baby, a baby girl,” he breathes before he breaks out into a huge grin.

I can’t hold back. My laughter bubbles through me until it’s spilling out of my mouth. I’m not able to stop myself as my laugh turns into full-on giggles. I press my forehead against his chest as I try to catch my breath.

“Of course, it’s real,” I say. I wipe my eyes and lift my head to look up at him.

He has a small smile on his lips, but his expression is otherwise serious. He cups my cheeks in his palms and looks directly into my eyes.

“I just, it just hit me. Seeing her move around, knowing it’s a her and seeing that she looks like a real baby. It hit me, and it’s real,” he breathes.

My eyes fill with more tears, but not from laughter. No, these tears are because this man is beautiful and I’m so in love with him. “It’s all real, Pres. She’s coming in just a few months and she’s ours,” I whisper.

Prescott lowers his face closer to mine and presses his mouth against my own. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and he kisses me. It’s wet, sensual, and gorgeous.

I accept it all, every stroke from his tongue, moaning as my hands clench against his leather cut. I allow him to reluctantly break the kiss, inhaling his spicy scent as his forehead presses against mine.

“I have some shit to do for a few hours. Stay home and I’ll be there soon,” he grunts. I nod, letting out a shaky breath.

Prescott helps me into my Jeep and I drive away, feeling like I’m on a cloud. Names start flitting through my head as I think about this baby girl in my belly.

I wonder what he’ll want to name her?

Hopefully he’ll agree with me and go with something classically beautiful. I really don’t care for my own name, Ginger. I prefer a name more like his, Prescott just seems so much more regal than my own, more poetic.

I’m still lost in my name game thoughts when I pull into my driveway. I don’t notice it at first, but as I walk up my front steps, I see it.

My eyes widen, and I look down at the welcome mat. It looks less welcoming than it ever has. There’s a large yellow envelope sitting on it, with the words—Aryan’s Whore—scrolled across the center in big black marker.

I turn around, looking to see if anybody is around. That feeling that has been coming and going, that feeling of being watched, it’s back. A shiver slides through me, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. I quickly pick up the envelope and unlock the door, slipping inside of the house. I quickly flip the lock closed and dump my purse and keys on the floor before making my way over to the sofa.

With shaky fingers, I turn the envelope over and slip my finger beneath the flap to open it. Letting the contents fall into my lap, I close my eyes tightly before I look at them. There are photographs, four to be exact.

I scoop up the pictures before looking at them. The first one is of me, it’s before my kidnapping. I can tell because my hair is shorter. I’m standing outside of the bar, reaching for Prescott’s hand but he’s walking away, an angry gaze on his face.

My heart aches at the sight, I remember that night. That was one of the last nights before I was taken. I was trying to cling to him, but he was pissed at me, we had been fighting and he told me he was done.

The next two pictures are of me in town, one at the grocery store and the other at the post office. The fourth picture I fling to the ground as soon as my eyes scan it.

The image is of me, bound and in that dark, dirty bedroom where I was held for months. I’m wearing only a tank and panties. My hair and face are dirty. It’s disgusting, and it makes everything that happened to me flash through my mind.

Taking a deep breath, I unfold the note that was also in the envelope.

I gather up the pictures quickly, and shove them plus the note, back into the envelope. My fingers shake with every single move that I make. I need to hide this thing, get rid of it. I don’t want Prescott to see, though.

Whoever this is, he’s just fucking with me. I’m safe. I know that I’m safe. Nobody in that house survived. The men that visited but weren’t there, Pres killed most of them. I know he killed them, and I was proud that he did.

No, this isn’t someone from the Aryans, this is some sick fucker that’s trying to mess with me. I hurry upstairs, the envelope in hand, and open my panty drawer. I shove the bits of fabric to the side and drop it inside, covering it up with my panties.

There, nobody will even know it’s there.

Nobody except me.

I spend the rest of the afternoon and early evening pacing. I pace my bedroom for a while, then I move down into the living room and pace there. I don’t eat, but I do take a small break to drink some water, then return to pacing.

I don’t know what to do.

I can’t call anybody about this either. I don’t want Prescott to overreact, and I don’t want whoever this sick fuck is to win. I refuse to publicly freak out—privately though? That’s a completely different story.

The sun sets, and I expect Pres home at any second. I decide to start dinner, something to keep my mind off of that damn envelope upstairs in my panty drawer. I should have put it somewhere else, that weirdo doesn’t deserve to have his sick note near my pretty panties.

I cook. I don’t even know what I’m making, I’m so lost inside of my own head. The excitement and giddiness of today is completely gone, and it’s replaced with dread—complete and total dread.

I don’t need this, my blood pressure was actually pretty good today, and this will force it higher. I close my eyes, inhaling a deep breath. I need to relax, to calm down, and not to stress about this. Stressing out does nothing but let him win, and I refuse to allow that.

Looking down into the pan, I’m surprised to see that I made chicken, rice, and broccoli casserole. Glancing up at the microwave I frown at the time.

It’s after seven and Prescott said he’d be home early. He’s been really good about keeping his word when he promises something lately, and honestly, this is the longest we’ve been apart since I’ve come home.

Reaching into my cardigan pocket, I pull out my phone, curious to see if I missed a call or text from him but there’s nothing there. I find his number and call him, but it doesn’t even ring before his voicemail picks up.

I feel a prickling at the back of my neck, something isn’t right. I decide to call Crooner, in hopes that he’ll know where Pres is. Thankfully he picks up on the second ring. It sounds like there’s a concert happening in the background.

“You okay, Ging?” he shouts.

Clearing my throat, I ask where Prescott is.

“Snake’s at the clubhouse, babe. I’m at the bar, oh fuck, there’s a fight. I gotta go,” he yells and then the phone goes dead.

I’m not that woman. I swear I’m not that woman who has to know where her man is every second of every day, but right now, I need him. I need Prescott to come home. I don’t feel safe, and I have to have him with me. I scroll through my contacts finding Free and dialing his phone.

“Free,” he murmurs, his voice light and easy.

He sounds high, and I roll my eyes. “I’m looking for Prescott,” I announce.

He chuckles and that’s when I know for sure that he is high. How annoying. Although I kind of wish I could be too at this moment. It would make the stress of that fucking yellow envelope a little easier to handle. I patiently wait for him to reply and am lucky that it doesn’t take too long.

“He’s here at the club, in full-on celebration mode. Congrats on the little girl, babe.”

I close my eyes, I used to know what celebration mode was. I’m afraid to ask exactly what it means today, because of the previous meaning. He used to get a girl, drink and fuck all night when he was celebrating. If he’s doing that now, combined with that letter, I might have a panic attack.

“He’s just drinking and hanging with the boys, babe,” Free announces as though he can read my mind.

“I’d like to talk to him, anyway,” I whisper.

He grunts and I can hear him shuffling around and then a few minutes later, Prescott’s voice is on the line.

“Hey Georgia peach. Oh fuck, am I late?” he slurs. “I was tellin’ the guys about the baby and we started drinking.”

A small smile plays on my lips. When I didn’t think he was excited, I was worried, now I know he is indeed excited. I just wish he was at home celebrating with me.

“When will you be home?” I ask.

“Not too late, I’ll have Crooner or someone drive me home.”

Clearing my throat, I tell him okay. Someone shouts that it’s time for another round and he ends the call, but not before he tells me he loves me.

I shove my phone back in my cardigan pocket and scoop a bowl of food. Then I take myself over to the sofa and turn on the television. I feel anxious still, but I hope to immerse myself into some mind-numbing TV will help.

I stumble into the house. “Fucking shit,” I curse when I cut the corner too close and end up slamming my shoulder into the corner of the doorway.

Shutting the front door closed, I stumble toward the staircase. The house is really quiet, and I laugh a little as I try to keep myself from falling over.

Standing at the bottom of the staircase, I tip my head back slightly. I don’t remember there being so many fucking stairs. I lift my foot and plant it on the first step, then the next.

Gripping the handrail, I take another and then another. I sway at about halfway up and I try to calm the fuck down. The last thing I need to do is fall backward on these fucking stairs.

It takes me longer than it should, but I eventually make my way completely up the stairs. Then I turn and fumble into the bedroom.

The light is on in the bathroom, thank fuck. Glancing over to the bed I see Ginger lying there on her side. Her dark blonde hair is splayed out behind her and the sheets are pulled up to her breasts as she clings to them.

I strip my clothes off, my cock going hard at the sight of my woman, my wife, and the mother of my daughter. Fuck, a daughter. I can’t believe that it’s all real, that it’s happening. I can’t fucking wait.

Once I’m completely naked, my clothes strung out all over the room, I crawl into the bed behind my woman. I shift her hair to the side, and press my lips to her neck, right in the center of my road name tattoo.

Wrapping my hand around her hip, I bunch the fabric of her nightgown in my fingers before I drag it up her body as far as I can. Slipping my hand down, cupping her between the legs, I groan when I find her sans panties.

I drag my finger through her center, swirling around her clit, then back. My lips stay against her neck, nipping and licking her skin as I try to rouse her from her sleep.

Ginger moans, lifting her top leg slightly. Sliding my knee between hers, I shift her leg, widening her for my hand. Thrusting my hips, I glide my cock between the cheeks of her ass with a groan.

“Prescott,” she breathes. She reaches her arm up, gripping the hair at the back of my head, tightly.

I dip my finger inside of her center, feeling her wetness coat me before I move to swirl it around her clit again. Her hips shift, and I grunt as she presses her ass harder against me.

Unable to wait another minute, I align my cock with her center and glide inside of her wet heat. I shift my hand to her clit, pressing two fingers against her and rub in firm circles as I fuck her.

“Oh God, so good,” she moans gripping my hair tighter.

I grunt, my mouth still working her neck, while my fingers work her clit and my dick works her cunt. Ginger shivers, pushing her ass back with each thrust forward I make. It’s good, so fucking good, just like she moaned.

My eyes slip closed as I take her.

“I’m close,” she sobs.

I give her clit a gentle tap, which floods my cock with even more wetness. She’s so slick and tight, I won’t be able to last much longer. I hope to fuck she’s ready to come. I continue tapping her clit, then rub it, before I tap it again.

Thank fuck, it doesn’t take long, her pussy squeezes me, and she gasps as she comes around me. I thrust up inside of her, two more times, before I groan against her neck with my own release.

Shifting her legs, to rest back together, I glide in and out of her slowly. She’s so tight this way, that I almost see stars. She sighs contently, and I stay rooted as deeply as I can, while I slip my hand around her belly, my lips against her neck.

“You’re home late,” she sighs, again.

I know she won’t freak the fuck out, but I should have come home when I said I would have. I shouldn’t have partied and drank all night. It was inconsiderate, and it was irresponsible.

“I’m sorry, peaches. I should have come home,” I admit.

She sighs, shifting her body and rolling over to face me. I mourn the loss of her wet cunt, but the consolation prize of staring into her pretty brown eyes satiates me, for a moment. “You should have, but it was a congratulatory thing, so I get it,” she smiles sadly.

Reaching out, I cup her face, running my thumb along the apple of her cheek. “One shot led to, too many,” I grunt. “I meant to come home, swear to fuck.”

She nods. “No women?” she asks, her voice almost small.

My fingers flex against her face. “Never,” I bark. “Not ever, Ginger.”

“Don’t be mad,” she all but begs. I feel like a dick for the harsh tone I use, but I can’t believe she would even question me.

“Not mad, peaches. Just know, that isn’t something you ever have to worry about. You’ve got my ring on your finger, you’ve got my baby in your belly, and you’ve got my heart. As long as this bed’s warm, I’ll always be here with you.”

She arches a brow and I can see her fightin’ side starting to appear. “As long as this bed’s warm?” she asks.

I roll my eyes, not wishing to get into an argument. I’m drunk, freshly laid, and tired. I move my hand from her face, allowing it to travel down to her hip, gripping her tightly.

“Wouldn’t expect you to stay celibate if I cut you off, you can’t expect the same.”

“You’re such an asshole,” she hisses.

I laugh, full-on laugh. “Fuck yeah I am, peaches. You just figure that shit out?”

“No, but swear to God, Pres. Your assholeness astounds me almost daily,” she huffs.

I shift my hand from her hip to her ass, and give her a rough squeeze. “Get used to that shit, peaches,” I smile.

My eyelids feel especially heavy, the room is bathed in scents of my woman, sex, and shrouded in darkness as I pass out.