Pregnant with a Bikers Baby

She

Jax POV

"Elena."

I kept my face blank, the mask of the President sliding back into place as easily as my cut. The vulnerability I’d seen in her eyes moments ago was gone, replaced by a steely determination that almost made me grin. Almost. I couldn't afford to grin. I couldn't afford to feel anything but the itch to get back to the clubhouse and handle whatever fire had started while I was balls-deep in a stranger.

"Just go, Elena," I said, my voice hard, flat. "And be careful on the way home. The roads are s**t, and this part of town gets ugly after midnight."

I watched her hand tighten on the door handle, her knuckles turning white. She didn't turn around. She didn't thank me. She just gave a sharp, jerky nod and yanked the door open.

The door slammed shut behind her, the heavy steel vibrating in the frame, leaving the bathroom in a sudden, suffocating silence.

I stared at the wood grain of the door for a long moment, my chest still heaving slightly, the scent of her—rain, berries, and s*x—lingering in the stale air like a ghost. My phone buzzed again in my hand, an angry, insistent vibration that jerked me back to reality.

*Prospect is waiting. Now.*

I shoved the phone into my pocket, the silence of the bathroom ringing in my ears, heavy and judging. I should have felt relief. I’d scratched the itch. I’d blown off the steam. I should be straightening my cut and walking out to my bike ready to handle business.

Instead, I found myself staring at the empty space where she’d stood, feeling a strange, phantom pressure in my chest.

*Go with her.*

The thought was a traitorous whisper, slippery and insidious, sliding through the cracks in my armor before I could stomp it out. *Take her back to the clubhouse. Let her sleep in your bed. Keep her safe.*

I ground my teeth together, the jaw muscle jumping as I stared at my own reflection in the foggy mirror. The man staring back was a fool if he thought for even a second that was a good idea. She was soft. She was civilian. And she was wearing vintage velvet and blood-red lace in a world that chewed women like her up and spit out bones.

Bringing her into the Death Row clubhouse wasn't saving her; it was painting a target on her back. My enemies didn't fight fair. They didn't care about collateral damage. If they thought I gave a damn about her, they’d use her to get to me. They’d slit her throat just to watch me bleed.

The image of her throat cut, her dark eyes staring and sightless, flashed through my mind with a clarity that made my stomach turn. It was a visceral reaction, sharp and sickening, and it pissed me off. I didn't get protective. I didn't get possessive over one-night stands. I took what I needed and I left the wreckage behind. That was the code. That was how you survived in the life I’d chosen.

But I could still smell her on my hands. I could still feel the grip of her body around mine, the way she’d begged me to hurt her, to make her forget. She wasn't just some random club bunny looking for a patch. She was a wound that hadn't healed yet, all jagged edges and desperate intensity. A woman like that didn't need a savior, and she definitely didn't need a outlaw like me putting her in the ground.

"f*****g i***t," I muttered to my reflection, splashing cold water on my face to wash away the scent of her skin. It didn't work. It was ingrained in my pores now, a chemical reminder of the worst decision I’d made tonight.

The cold water did nothing to quell the heat still buzzing under my skin, but at least it washed away the sheen of sweat. I stared at the dripping faucet, watching the water spiral down the drain, and forced the image of Elena’s wide, dark eyes out of my head. I couldn't think about the way she’d looked at me like I was her salvation and her destruction all at once. That was a road that led to a coffin or a cage, and I had no intention of ending up in either.

I adjusted my cut, smoothing the leather over my shoulders, and checked my reflection one last time. The President stared back—hard, unreadable, ready for war. Good. That was who I needed to be.

I shoved open the bathroom door, the noise of the bar hitting me like a physical wave after the sterile quiet of the tile room. The air was thicker now, smokier, the mood heavier. Several heads turned as I walked out, eyes darting away quickly when they caught my gaze. Good. Fear was a currency that never lost value.

I cut a path through the crowd, the sea of bodies parting instinctively. I didn't have the patience for pleasantries or the drawn-out goodbyes of brothers who’d had too much to drink. My mind was already three miles down the road, shifting gears from the raw, messy encounter in the bathroom to the cold, hard reality of club business.

The heavy oak door of *The Rusty Nail* groaned open, and the damp chill of the night air rushed in to meet me, slapping the sweat from my skin. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the asphalt was still slick, reflecting the red neon of the bar sign in shimmering, oily puddles.

I walked to the curb, my boots crunching on the gravel, and stopped. I looked left, then right. The parking lot was a scattering of pickup trucks and rusted sedans. The sleek lines of the vintage Mustang I’d seen her pull up in were gone.

Gone.

I stared at the empty stretch of curb where the Mustang had been parked, the taillights already dissolved into the grey mist of the highway. A sharp, foreign spike of disappointment pierced my chest, quickly followed by a rush of cold relief.

Good. It was better this way. No awkward goodbyes, no lingering looks, no temptation to do something stupid like follow her home and make sure she actually made it without sliding into a ditch. She was gone, back to her safe, vintage world of lace and cardigans, and I was here, standing in the oily puddles of the life I’d chosen.