Page 47 of Sabre’s Guard

“Dylan Everett?” the older officer asks. “I’m Officer Harper with the Las Salinas Police Department. I need you to stand up, sir.”

Dylan looks at me and his expression is shocked. I’d bet my bottom dollar that he didn’t think I had it in me to turn him in. He immediately begins trying to talk his way out of the situation.

“Officers, there’s been a misunderstanding. This is a private discussion between me and my ex. We’re not disturbing the peace in any way. If I’m in violation of a restraining order, I’d like to point out that I’m here at her request.”

“Actually, you’re being detained for a parole violation, Mr. Everett. Interstate travel without authorization. Montana has already been notified and requested you be remanded into custody. Stand up and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Fucking bitch! You set me up! You sat there and ran me in circles to give them time to get here.”

I don’t rise to his bait. “You set yourself up by violating the terms of your parole.”

The officers order him out of the booth, turn him around and cuff his hands behind his back. It happens so quietly that half the people in the diner continue watching the game.

Sabre slowly approaches and puts his hand against the small of my back when I stand.

At the door, Dylan stops and looks back at me. Officer Harper gives him a few seconds before urging him outside.

If looks could kill, I’d be dead. Before he’s taken away he grinds out, “The funny part about this situation is that you still think I’m the one you should be worried about.”

Since it sounds vaguely threatening, Officer Harper moves him through the door before he can say anything else.

I stand there frozen while Sabre’s arm slowly closes around my waist. At some point, that strong arm is the only thing holding me up. Meanwhile, the diner is quiet because everyone is watching the police haul Dylan off.

I move closer into the circle of Sabre’s arm and press my face against his chest. Now that it’s over, I find myself getting emotional. I’ve always been this way, dealing with the crisis at hand and fall apart later if I need to.

“You did it,” Sabre whispers. “You walked in here alone, stood your ground, and made sure that asshole got what he deserved. I’m proud of you, darlin’.”

Through the large windows, we watch Dylan being placed in the back of a police cruiser. Talon, Tusk, and Rider appear from different directions as the cruiser pulls away. I hadn’t realized he brought reinforcements.

I don’t know whether Dylan will likely catch more time for the parole violation or just have to finish out his remaining two years. Either way, it’s a win for me and my son. I couldn’t have done it without Sabre and his club brothers.

Chapter 15

Sabre

It’s been two weeks since Dylan got arrested, and I can’t believe how much our life has changed. Linsey is no longer looking over her shoulder, worrying about when Dylan would pop up and ruin her life. Now her life can return to normal, and she can go where she likes, without being stressed.

Her aunt went home ten days ago. The broken window was replaced, and new locks were installed by our security firm. The brothers still randomly ride past her house, presumably because they’re creatures of habit.

Linsey and Noah stayed on with me because this is where they belong. Linsey’s also back to work at The Gilded Fig, and her cooking classes start again next month.

I reach across the bed and find an empty sheet that’s still warm. Then I hear her getting sick down the hall. I roll out of bed and am halfway to the ensuite bathroom before I think about it. When I hit the doorway, I find her kneeling in front of the toilet. She has one hand braced on the seat and the other holding back her hair.

“I got you, darlin’,” I say as I kneel behind her and gather her hair back out of her face. She tries to shove me away, but I won’t leave her, not when she’s sick.

“Don’t watch me,” she says weakly once she can speak.

“I’ve watched you gut fish,” I remind her. “This ain’t grossing me out at all.”

Before she can answer, she gets sick again. I keep her hair out of the way and stay at her side until the vomiting stops.

When she finally sits back against the tub, her face is pale and there’s sweat along her hairline. I bring her a glass of cold water from the sink, and she rinses her mouth, spits, and takes a few careful sips. Grabbing a towel, I run warm water over it and use it to gently clean her face.

When I shoot her a questioning look, she murmurs, “It must be something I ate at work. Either that, or the leftover chili from the clubhouse.”

“At least you don’t have a fever.”

“Chefs are exposed to more questionable food than everybody else because we taste everything.”