ROMANCE: BIKER ROMANCE: Werewolf Rider (MC Shifter Pregnancy Romance) (New Adult Paranormal Romance Short Stories) (119 page)

Frankie asks, barely conscious, her voice a whisper. Her shoulder aches. She is confused and can barely lift her head.

“You’re in the infirmary,
in and out
in the shoulder, Goldilocks. You’ll be fine.”  Storm reassured her.

“We won. Ya’ done good, too, sharp shooter. In fact, it appears I owe ya’ one.”

“Course you do.” She said, having no idea why.

Storm chuckles.

His voice is low, and strangely, uncharacteristically soft yet utterly powerful at the same time. Frankie feels his hand move, and come to rest, lightly, on her hers.

She feels her breath stop. It feels almost too good to be true. At the same time, it is so right. As if he has always touched her like this.

Neither of them move, so they cannot break the moment; the amazing closeness. Her eyes now manage to open, as her baby blues look deep into his emerald green eyes. He’s sitting beside the bed, leaning over her now.

“Frankie... I thought we lost you. I couldn’t...” He couldn’t finish the sentence, now squeezing her hand. His voice is raw with feeling, exhausted, not having turned in when told to awaiting her to come to, after surgery.   

“It’s not like I wondered off.” She playfully scolded, managing a hint of a smile.

Storm didn’t smile. He was serious. It was the first time he would take a pass on sarcasm.

They are both still, looking into each other’s eye’s, nothing else existed. It was a perfect, long awaited conversation, yet having said nothing, and everything.

“Frankie...” He finally attempted, but failed.

After a while, he breathes out, heavily, not finding the courage to verbalize his feelings. “Get some sleep, eh? I’m going to go interview the prisoners.”

“Huh..?” Frankie does not know the news about the prisoners.

“Interrogation time, we’re gonna’ get some Intel. We’re just about to get started.”

“...Makes sense,” Frankie says, faintly. “Me too... Chase, I’m coming too...”

She has never called him by his first name before. It hangs in the air between them, a thing of strange, tremulous loveliness.

“Ya’ right,” he says, shaking his head, laughing. “Get some rest Goldilocks. You can kick some ass later,” having heard her use that expression many times before.

“No..., 's alright.” Frankie slurs a little, as the effects of the pain meds overwhelms her, and draws her back into the mist of sleep.

He gently leans forward, offering a tender kiss on her lips. “See you later, Locks” he whispers in her ear, thinking that she didn’t hear him, or noticed the kiss, having dropped off.

“...later.” Frankie slurs, managing a half grin, surprising him with a response, not asleep as thought. She slips into a dreamless sleep.

“Rex?” Frankie asks, hearing someone shuffle beside the bed, smelling a slight waft of his aftershave.  

“Ya’, it’s me. How ya’ feeling hero?” His question teased, in Storm’s apparent sharing of her final hit.

“Huh?” She asked, bewildered.

After explaining what happened, Rex insisted she rest. Rex was waiting outside the infirmary unnoticed, while Storm was with her, he wasn’t going anywhere until he had a chance to speak with her himself, reassuring himself she really would be fine.   

“Rex, thanks for checking in” she managed, before drifting off for a few more hours of sleep. A final squeeze of his warm hand, she was out.

***

Three hours later, Frankie forces herself up, doing what she is trained to do. Storm enters the make-shift interrogation room, fully surprised at her presence, and reprimands her for being up, while proudly grinning at her tenacity.

In a make shift interrogation office, across from where the pirates are being held, a pirate is ushered in. He is lean, thin, and dark. His hair is a wavy thick mess, dirty ringlets, falling to his shoulders, partly-covered by a keffiyeh. He looks undernourished and unwashed, and, for all that, entirely defiant.

“And your ships are kept in the harbor… among the North side?”

Storm is asking the question, his voice mild. Frankie knows how dangerous that tone can be. Her shoulder still aches, but she is feeling better; and able to somewhat focus, for now anyway. She has a pad of paper and a pen, taking notes. Two SEALs guard the door behind them, and two Naval personnel.

“...Many ships,” the man demurs, spreading his hands. “Too many. You will never find them all.” Knowing the territory is deceptively hidden, with a rocky shoreline and hidden bays all over the territory.

“
Where are they
?” Storm's voice is even and commanding. “
Now!
” He warns.

“Too many...you cannot stand against them...” The man continues, in the same halting sing-song of before. He could, Frankie thinks tiredly, keep this up all day.

Beside her, she feels Storm losing his patience. She puts a hand warningly on his under the table, for a moment, and then takes it away.
No.
Don't let him see he's getting to you
. She knows he’ll understand the message. She feels him breathing slower.

“Right. We'll ask again...” He begins. Now fully committed to outlast this man, without question.

Frankie's attention wanders for a moment, as he repeats what he has asked before. The pirate, shifting in uneasiness in Storm’s change in energy, lifts his hands in exasperation as the steady onslaught of questions continue, and most obvious now, not about to end any time soon. She suddenly shudders, as she notices something on the pirate's hand.

It is a ring. She knows that ring.

Gareth always wore a ring like it, a band with a crest; he wore it on the second finger of his right hand. It was a family ring, given to Gareth by their grandfather. It is unusual, the front plain, but flattened into a bezel where a family crest should stand. It is rare to see rings like that.
She just
knows
…

Frankie feels her breath stop.

“Where..?” She is about to ask it, the word a whisper in her mouth. Seeing her reaction to something, Storm decides on a different course of action, the man being led out by the two SEALs, escorted back to the makeshift holding room. And now Storm is looking at her, his deep green eyes looking into hers, a question mark. He could tell she knew something, and would wait for him to be escorted out before saying anything.

“You know something.” He says, inquisitively. 

“More than you may, or may not believe.” She ventures. “They have prisoners. We need to get more information on their location,
immediately
.” She started to explain, a deep sense of urgency. “The ring he wore looks like on Gareth wore, slightly altered, flattened at the crest. I know it’s his. I almost took a strip off of him but decided another course of action, which you may, or may not agree with. 

“
Your brother
...?!” Storm asks, excitedly. Having served with him in the past, they had become close. He too had put out feelers after his disappearance, but nothing. Interest now piqued, adrenalin started to race with expectancy. “Are you sure?”

“No.” Frankie says. “
But my gut is
.”

“Lieutenant Howard? Lieutenant Jakeman?”

“Yes?” Storm answers the call from the doorway.

“Captain wants a word. We'll take over with the next batch.”

“Right. Thanks.” He calls out. The man is one of the SEALs team, a close colleague of Storm, on a lesser rank.

“You’re up for this?” He asks Frankie. 

“Yup!” She replies, all business,
especially now.

She presses down on the desk, supporting herself as she stands slowly. The pain lances through her shoulder. The painkillers are helping to dull it, but she is due for another one. She doesn’t want to take it unless completely necessary, to avoid the side effect of drowsiness. 

Minutes later, Frankie and Storm are discussing the interviews with the Captain, most especially the ring. They have enough information to at least have a rough idea of where the pirates are keeping their ships. They’re starting to cave giving bits, each giving different pieces of the puzzle away. They should have a full picture by that evening, they figure. The captain, most intrigued by the ring, and knowing Frankie is worthy of her hunches, thanks them and dismisses them.

Frankie goes to see the doctor, as ordered, who changes the dressing and gives her another dose of painkillers. Then she goes back to her cabin, to sleep.

As she drops into the sweet darkness of REM, she dreams of Gareth and childhood memories in the treehouse. They used to play ‘ESP’ when they were kids, guessing a number from one to twenty. They had a connection, and now she was willing him to speak up, and reveal his location with some kind of invisible clue. Finally, there was the possibility of rescue, should her gut feeling about the ring be accurate. Now Storm enters her dream, in it, they are back in the Civil War again, together, in another life.  They are fighting together, alongside each other. It is dry, dusty and they are in trouble…

***

It is night. The ocean moves, softly. It is a deep blue, the distant waves ripple in a cloth of midnight velvet.

Frankie is leaning on the deck, looking across the sea to where the stars are pale torches on a sea of inky blue.

“Locks?”

The voice is near her shoulder. It is soft on the evening air, and it vibrates through every part of her, sending warmth spiraling down her spine to her toes.
Storm?

“Yes.” He answers. His voice is rough, and low.

They pause.

“I …can't sleep.” He says after a moment. His voice is hesitant.

“Me neither.” Frankie adds, softly.

He comes to lean beside her on the rail. She can feel the warmth of his body even through the sleeve of his black dress uniform. She wears its counterpart beside him, two black sleeves with gold braid leaning beside each other on the rail.

They stand and watch the pattern of light on the waves, far below.

“You okay?” Storm asks, breaking the silence.

“Yeah.” Her voice is soft. She waits a moment then continues. “I...I should thank you...for what you did. I don’t think I would have been strong enough…”

“No.” His voice insistent, not willing to consider another outcome. No one hurts
my Locks
.” “And in case you don’t recall… you had my six, also”.

His term ‘
my
’ was like shell shock, but in this case, most welcomed.

They stand, silent, for a while, both clearly feeling deep emotion, but both too hesitant, to act on it, or say a single word. The ship moves on across the trackless waves.

After a moment, Frankie feels herself almost-unconsciously moving closer to Storm. He is, it seems, doing it too. She presses the side of her shoulder into his solid, massive arms beside her, as if requesting protection, like a puppy playfully and longingly pressed up against its owner. A moment of pure vulnerability for Frankie is a rare event. Her hand is on the rail. His comes over it, embracing it in his. Neither of them move, both looking forward.

His thumb makes slow patterns over her hand, making no mistake of his desire for her. Tickling, tracing tracks of fire across her nerves. She breathes slowly. It is almost unbearable; so intense; so right. They are silent.

Then, slowly, as if without volition, they intuitively turn to face each other at the same time. His eyes now looking into hers, steady, holding her gaze. The look he gives her is an unequivocal answer to a question that need not be asked. He wants her, and everything about him finally reveals it, without a word need being spoken. The seriousness of Storms expression seems an odd contrast, to the ecstasy of Frankie’s heart. Neither is able or willing to move, as if frozen in time, sealing the moment. 

Then, Storm places his hand around her waist, assertively pulls her toward him, any inhibition now completely gone, decidedly placing his lips firmly onto hers, locked eyes now closing.  Her lips warm, pressing firmly yet gently onto his, a vanilla sweetness to her subtle scent. The taste of their combined kiss is like honey, pure sweetness. His tongue, warm and inviting moves to touch hers more completely. She leans deeper into his kiss, and massive, muscular body and shutters throughout every cell of her body, longingly. Both of his arms wrapped around her waist, holding her low back while careful of her injured shoulder, he pulls her in to a full, satisfying embrace. 

After a few, long, perfect minutes, they move apart, ever so slightly. They breathe out, heavily. Both unsteady on their feet.

“Whew.”  He breathes. His eyebrows lift as he looks ever so tenderly and deeply into her baby blues.

Frankie laughs, unsteadily. Her face warm, complete softness in her gaze, allowing for the first time, her heart to completely be revealed in it, not armored in its usual protection. She tucks her body back into his, back into the safety of his oversized arms.

“Whew indeed.” She repeats, nestling her cheek into the nook of his chest, one hand moving up and down his abs, above his shirt, so naturally as if it had always been this way.