Preacher (The Untouchables MC 5)

“You’re awake.”

“I am,” I rasped out, giving her a look. “Now, come here.”

“And that’s my cue,” Clarice said with a big smile as she skedaddled out of the room. The other bed was empty. The door clicked softly and we were alone.

“Come here,” I said again.

Cynthia crossed her arms and glared at me, not moving an inch. I almost smiled. She was as stubborn as a goat, my woman.

“You are lucky to be alive,” she said accusingly. As if I’d done it on purpose.

Which . . . I sort of had. Didn’t matter if she was right, though. She was mine, and I needed to tell her so.

“Woman, don’t make me get up.”

“Fine!”

She threw her arms up and came toward the bed.

“Closer,” I said, watching her hungrily.

She took another step, attitude brimming. She was usually such a sweet, well-mannered girl, it was easy to forget she had grown up in the streets.

“Closer,” I ground out.

She rolled her eyes and saddled right up to the edge of the bed. I grabbed her and pulled her down for a kiss. She squealed. I groaned as my injury made itself known in a big way.

“Goddamn!” I hissed as the pain nearly made me black out. I realized sudden movements were out for now. That meant bedding my woman was going to have to wait.

That sucked big time. Every time I was near her, or even thought about her, I got sprung. Even right now, with the pain, my cock was definitely awake and happy to see her.

“Serves you right,” she said. But her face was pinched and worried. “Are you bleeding?”

I glanced down at my stomach, not loosening my grip on her wrist as she perched on the side of the bed.

“Don’t move.”

“I’ll get a nurse.”

“Do. Not. Move.”

I stared at her, breathing hard.

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what, Preacher?”

“Am I going to be a daddy?”

“Yes. I mean, I don’t know yet, but I decided we can have a baby if I am. And we can try if I’m not. But not if you keep doing stupid ass shit!”

I grinned suddenly.

“I’ve never heard you curse before.”

“Well, you bring it out in me, I guess!”

She looked so cute when she was mad. All indignant and scowly and pretty at the same time. Kind of like a pissed off kitten, but a lot more dangerous.

My woman could definitely cut me with her words and actions. In fact, she could hurt me more than anyone on earth, living or dead, ever could.

“So, we will have a baby, God willing, but not yet?”

She chewed her lip.

“I’m actually not sure. I’m due this week. You distracted me!”

I stared at her.

“How long have you been here? Have you slept?”

She looked away.

“Cynthia, as soon as these stitches are out, I am putting you over my knee. You cannot run yourself down like that when you are carrying our child!”

“Might be carrying your child,” she said in a small voice. “And you were shot. I couldn’t leave you. You kept saying my name.”

My eyes got wide at that. I could vaguely remember calling out for her . . . well, damn. She’d been through hell and here I was yelling at her. I sighed. The woman made me absolutely crazy.

“All right. How long have you been here?”

“A few days,” she said with a delicate shrug.

“You are going to march right home, take a long, hot shower to get the hospital stink off you, and get into bed.” I frowned at her. “And eat something healthy!”

“You are not my father,” she said, crossing her arms again. “And I don’t smell.”

“You know what I mean, woman.” I laughed, then immediately groaned at the pain that caused in my belly.

“I guess I got gut shot,” I hissed as I lay back on the bed. I’d been shot in the arm before, but this was something different. This pain was not staying in one place.

Oh, hell, no. This fucker liked to travel.

The pain was doing a little sightseeing by my navel, then up to visit my ribs and sliding all the way down to my goddamn nuts. I forced myself to think positively. At least my cock and balls were intact, thank God. I wasn’t sure I’d have the grace to go on without them.

“No, you got shot in your side. You are so lucky, Preacher. If it had been a few inches in . . .” She shuddered, and I could see how scared she’d been. I’d done that. I’d made the extraordinarily beautiful, kind, and brilliant woman in front of me worry about my sorry old ass.

It might be perverse, but I was pretty damn pleased about it. Proud, too. Like I’d earned a gold star or a blue ribbon.

“Sweetheart,” I said, reaching for her. But she pulled away. “I’m sorry I made you worry.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m mad at you.”