Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC 2)

The snarky argument I would have normally had for such a command was quashed by the soft tone and tender look in Brock’s eyes. I merely nodded.

He stayed gazing at me for a second more before he left the room.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I jerked awake when I felt a soft touch on my thigh, panic rising from the dream I had been trapped in. “It’s okay, babe, it’s just me,” Brock’s worried voice said from across the cab.

I glanced down at the tattooed hand on my thigh and relief swept through my sleep addled mind.

“Bad dream?” he asked, voice quiet.

I turned to him, emotionally wincing at the look on his face. His jaw was hard and his eyes were glittering with anger. He alternated between fury and tenderness the past couple of days and it was hard to keep up with. Not to mention a stark reminder of the reason for those conflicting emotions.

“Anyone would have a nightmare at the prospect of facing Katherine Abrams imminently,” I joked.

My relief at the familiar scenery whizzing past us was quelled by the fact that the closer we got to home, Gwen, Belle, and all my family in Amber was the closer we got to my mother. I had spoken to Gwen on the phone right before we left.

“Amy I didn’t want to tell you this, but every soldier needs to be prepared when going into battle,” Gwen had whispered quietly.

“Oh no, what?” I had groaned, thinking I knew what she was talking about. I just hoped she was referring to someone more tolerable, like Genghis Khan or Hitler.

“Your mother and father arrived late last night. Someone must have told them you were coming home,” she said carefully.

I groaned, burying my head in my hands. “Maybe I should go back to Clark’s. I like my chances there better.”

I was met with silence on the end of the phone.

“Gwen?”

“We don’t joke about Amy getting kidnapped until I get to see you in person and hug you and catalogue your limbs to make sure every one is still there. Then we have a stiff drink, you tell me everything that happened and I’ll decide whether humor is appropriate.” she said quietly, voice breaking.

Needless to say my chat with my best friend had turned serious then and I had to talk her out of driving six hours to see for herself.

We had stayed in New Mexico for two days, long enough for Hansen to feel happy about me facing the journey home without carking it. I had kept myself entertained with the help of Macy. She wasn’t joking; that chick was insane but in a totally good way. Her happiness and easygoing personality was contagious. It helped keep the dark thoughts at bay that included a knife and a seriously fucked up Italian. We had hugged each other goodbye only after I made her promise she would come and visit sometime soon.

Brock had continued to treat me like I was his and he had been uncharacteristically tender. It unnerved me. It also warmed me from the inside out. This wasn’t the intense firestorm that it usually was when we were together. This was something different. He would gaze at me with an intensity I couldn’t place. Like he couldn’t take his eyes off me in case I disappeared. He held me tight when he squeezed onto the small hospital bed after I awoke from nightmares. He touched me with a familiarity and ease of someone that had being doing it for their entire life, while wearing an expression that looked like he intended to do it for his entire life. It scared the shit out of me. I didn’t know how to erect my emotional barriers again. He hadn’t kissed me like the first night. He had stroked my face, held my hand, and gathered me in his arms but his mouth hadn’t touched mine since then.

So that brought me to now, pulling into my street, facing an interaction with my mother. I had been terrified to think she might actually be staying in my house, but thankfully they were flying out later today.

Brock grabbed my hand and squeezed. “She can’t be that bad, Sparky. She made you.”

“Do you have your gun?” I asked seriously, ignoring the tender statement.

His face was blank but his mouth twitched. “I’m not shooting your mother, babe.”

I shook my head. “I’m reasonably sure bullets wouldn’t work on her. I’m talking about for me. I may ask you to put me out of my misery if I have to be subjected to her for longer than forty-five minutes.”

Brock’s blank expression returned, sans mouth twitch. “We don’t joke about anyone using a gun on you. Got it?” His voice was hard.

“Sheesh, what is it with you and Gwen?” I said, exasperated at the sobering effect my attempts at humor had been having the past few days. I needed to cling to it; the reality of what had happened to me was too scary to face at this moment in time.

Brock pulled into the driveway, shutting the engine off. He grasped my chin lightly and turned my face to meet his. “For two days we were faced with the very real possibility that something had happened to you. Either you were—” Brock paused a second. “Either you were dead, or something had happened that changed you, made us lose the Amy we knew forever.” He stopped and watched me a second as if he was imprinting me on his memory. “When I first saw you in that hallway and you threw your smart ass comments, I’ve never been more glad to hear that in my life. I could breathe again knowing I hadn’t lost my girl.” His other hand moved to bite into my hip.

“When you passed out, when I saw all that blood—” He flinched at the memory. “I was resigned to the fact I’d have to life without breathing. Without oxygen. I was willing to give you every last drop of my blood if it meant the world wouldn’t lose you. Then you woke up. Threw the bitch.” Brock grinned. “That’s when my breath came back. So you see, when I’ve stared at what the world would look like without you in it, I don’t like anything that would remind me of that situation. Nothing, babe.”