Edge Of Fear (Arrow's Edge MC Book 4) by Freya Barker (top rated books of all time .TXT) 📕

“Okay, two weeks,” he repeats, cool as a cucumber.

Then he suddenly rolls me on my back and lands on top, hands planted on either side of me.

“Ever hear the expression: don’t borrow trouble?”

“Yes,” I respond a little breathless.

“We’re gonna deal with whatever the outcome is, but until we know, no amount of fretting or worrying is going to change anything.”

“Easy for you to say,” I grumble.

“No, it isn’t. I told you, I’m in this with you. If you need to talk, talk to me, but don’t spend the next two weeks tied in knots. It’s not healthy.”

He’s right, it isn’t healthy, but it’s not so easy to shut down a mind used to working nonstop. I appreciate the offer to talk things through with him, but he’s a big part of what’s been on my mind.

I need to talk to my sister.

“I’ll try.” Knowing myself well, that’s as much of a promise I’m able to make.

A corner of his mouth lifts in a lopsided smile before he lowers it to mine. His kiss is gentle, and like last night when he kissed me goodnight and simply held me, I don’t feel any pressure. It’s like he knows I need some time. Surprising, since I’m pretty sure his testosterone levels far outmeasure most other men’s.

“I’m gonna grab a quick shower. Get some coffee going. Why don’t you try and catch a few more winks?”

Another brush of his lips and he rolls off me, swinging his legs over the side and giving me a perfect view of the artwork on his back.

“Tse?” I reach out and trace the broken chain. “Do these have a special meaning?”

I know he had a troubled childhood and I wonder if the question is too personal when he stays silent. I withdraw my hand and am about to apologize for intruding when he speaks up.

“Which one?”

Encouraged, I touch his back and run them over the tattoo, feeling a ridge under my fingers.

“This one. The chain.”

“Freedom,” he answers right away. “First tattoo I got. Ouray took me to a friend of his, a tattoo artist in Cortez. I’d just turned seventeen.”

I sit up and lean closer, now able to see the long scar the ink conceals. I press my lips against his skin.

“They hurt you. Your last family.”

He doesn’t answer, which in itself is answer enough.

I move on to the next one.

“And the compass?”

“For guidance, direction. That’s what the club gave me.” There’s no hesitation this time. “The arrow stands for a path to follow. I got that one when I was officially made a club prospect.”

“What about the feather?”

“It represents courage. My brothers got that for me when I patched in.”

I notice now that the four smaller items appear a little more faded than the large bird that spans his back. I use the fingers on both hands to measure its full width.

“I thought this would’ve been there first, but you got this last, didn’t you?”

He looks over his shoulder at me, his eyes smiling.

“Yeah. I’d started covering my arms and chest with shit I liked the look of, but my back was reserved for things that had meaning, that I was proud of. Then twelve years ago, when the club had changed its direction, I had the Thunderbird added.”

“And it means?”

“Power, protection, and strength. The power to make a difference, the protection of innocence, and the strength to stay the course.”

I close in behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist as I press my cheek between his shoulder blades.

“The older ones are your journey, but this last one is your destination.”

What appeared at first a haphazard collection of ink; now makes all kinds of sense. His past and present connected on his back.

The protection of innocence.

However this man presents himself to the world, what he stands for—what his club stands for—runs deeper than his skin.

He covers my locked hands on his abs with his own.

“Yeah,” he simply confirms.

Then he loosens my grip, gets to his feet, and I watch his naked ass walk into the bathroom. Instead of lying back down, I hop out of bed, pull on some clothes, and snag my phone from the nightstand before heading downstairs.

“What’s wrong?”

It’s the first thing my sister says when she answers.

I’m curled up in a chair on the deck, watching the morning fog lift from the trees in the warmth of the morning sun.

“Nothing. We always talk on Sunday morning.”

“Baloney. I call you, not the other way around, and this is the second Sunday in a row you beat me to it. So I’ll ask again, what’s wrong?”

My sister…I don’t know whether that sixth sense is something she always had or whether it developed with motherhood, but I can tell from her tone she means business. Good, because I really need to unload.

I tell her about Tse, about the trip to Moab, about the things he says, and the way he makes me feel.

When I’m sure she’s already halfway in love with him from what I’ve described, I hit her with the rest of it.

“Pregnant?”

By the time I hear the sliding door open behind me and Tse steps out, all that’s left of the long-distance tears I shared with my sister are a few wet stains on my shirt, but my heart already feels lighter.

Tse

It was clear she’d been crying.

I figured she was talking with her sister when I came down the stairs and saw her on the phone outside. Giving her some space, I turned to the kitchen where I was able to find the makings of a pot of coffee, and checked the fridge for breakfast food.

The coffee was passable but the eggs were rubber and I’d burned the bacon, but she’d eaten everything I piled on her plate without complaint.

I didn’t ask, and she didn’t volunteer, but it’s safe to guess she talked about what happened yesterday. I try not to let it bother me she didn’t talk to me, but I get it. If I