Beast: Learning to Breathe (Devil's Blaze MC #5)

It doesn’t matter if he lives this close. He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him. He’s not here to get to know me. The mere fact he’s moving next door is nothing more than rotten luck, and God knows I have had more than my fair share of that.

My hand goes to my stomach in reflex, and I rub the small bump that has now formed on my stomach, when I feel Maggie move and shift. I’m a couple of months behind on my doctor’s visits. I hate myself for that. I have insurance, but the local doctor in town knows my history; knows it and clearly does not approve. He’s always billing me, and I’m beginning to think it’s not what I would truly owe after insurance. I think the charges are only what he wants to add to the bill—because he can. If there was another obstetrician in this small town I would go there. But there’s not, so I put up with his leering looks and the hateful attitude of his staff, because I don’t have a real choice. I let them treat me like crap, which is weak, and I hate being weak. Today I will be stronger. The thought pops in my mind, mocking me.

I turn away from the window. I need to get busy packing up everything I made yesterday. Pastor Sturgill will be here any moment, and I don’t want to keep him waiting on me. The church’s business means a lot to me. The Pastor has helped get my baked goods out there and not only that, he gave me open access to their secondhand shop. I’ve been able to pick up a baby crib, a dresser, and even a bassinet. They weren’t the best thing out there, but they were in decent shape, and with my next check I will be able to purchase a new mattress. I will make sure Maggie has everything she needs.

I’m so engrossed in my thoughts and boxing things up that I’m completely caught off guard when there’s a tapping noise on the back door.

I wrap my arms around myself until my heart rate begins to calm.

Today I will be stronger…

Maybe not so much.





5





Beast





I know she’s in there. I watched her through the window. On my third round of knocking, I’ve about had enough. I walk to the small kitchen window and bang on the glass with the flat of my hand. I don’t knock on it easy, though not quite as hard as I would like to since the glass is cracked, and the window itself looks older than I am. Hell, it might even be older than that damn stove in the rat-hole I slept in last night. She walks to the window as though she’s in a trance, her eyes widen, staring back at me like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car.

I didn’t think she was much to look at yesterday. She appears marginally better today; her hair doesn’t seem as dark. It’s almost strawberry color in places, before slowly fading into darker hues. It’s long. I don’t think I appreciated how long, which is weird because it was worn down yesterday. Today, it’s pulled to the top of her head and laying in a crazy mess, that somehow looks natural. What I am noticing more today, are her eyes. They’re as large as saucers right now, as she gapes at me. I can see fear and the disgust flickering in them. Do my scars bother her? Yesterday, it had been cloudy and close to dark, maybe she missed them. Just like I didn’t notice that her eyes are a strange shade of blue—especially the right one which is a little darker in color. They could almost be called a steely gray.

She moves quickly from the window, and I cuss under my breath. What the fuck is her problem? Without a thought, I make it back to the door. I yank hard on the handle at the same exact time she’s on the other side opening it.

I let out a grunt when the woman stumbles into me. I catch her easily. My hands grabbing on each side of her, my thumbs and fingers are pressing against breasts that I could have sworn I thought were small yesterday. I hold her still. She doesn’t speak, and I’m not sure if it’s that fact or the feel of a woman in my arms after all this time that pisses me off more.

I steady her away from me, letting her go, and taking her in. She’s wearing another loose sweater that is about three sizes too big, though her stomach is definitely protruding from it. The only difference in this one and the one from yesterday is that this one is a pale yellow and looks better on her.

I know fuck-all about pregnant women. I’ve done everything I could to stay away from them and Jan…Fuck, I didn’t even know she was pregnant for most of the pregnancy. But this one appears exhausted. Not my problem. Where in the hell is her man? Obviously, she can’t even walk on her own. There’s no way she should have a baby on her own. I wouldn’t even trust her to hold a child.

A wave of memories crashes down on me. All these thoughts about Jan, of her pregnancy, of Annabelle…these thoughts are not welcome. They aren’t wanted—at all. The fact that the woman standing in front of me caused them to attack me makes me snarl. I watch as the sound I make causes her to jump back like a frightened rabbit.

“Wha…” she starts but stops to take in a shaky breath. “What are you doing here?” she finally gets out.

I clear my throat. If I could go the rest of my life not speaking, I’d be okay with that. The sound of my voice has been altered from the accident and it serves as one more reminder. A reminder I don’t need. I clear my throat and rub my hand across my beard, scratching under my chin, subconsciously touching one of the scars I hide behind the hair.

“I need to plug in my phone.”

“What?”

“I don’t have power. I need my phone charged.”

“You don’t have power,” she mimics, as if she’s in a trance. Her eyes are still holding mine captive, and I have to wonder if she’s mentally disabled or some shit.

“I just said that,” I tell her, getting irritated.

“You want me to charge your phone? In my house?” she questions, her eyes widen even further, and she takes two steps back. I nod yes, instead of speaking. “I can’t do that,” she says, shaking her head back and forth for emphasis.

“Why the hell not?”

“I don’t know you.”

“I’m not asking you to suck my dick, just charge my phone.”

Her head whips back. I shouldn’t have said that. She’s not the kind of woman I’m used to dealing with. I see the moment my words hit her, there is not a blush like I would expect to see from a woman hearing something so vulgar. No. She’s completely different. Her face goes deathly white. She’s so pale it wouldn’t surprise me if she passes out.

Instead, her head goes down, and I hear a faint mumble come from her, that I have to strain to hear. “I have to go,” she says.