Scars of Yesterday (Sons of Templar MC #8) - Anne Malcom Page 0,97

my drugged-up state, I knew that was wrong. I did my best trying to convince him to leave, but he did that hard-jawed thing and stayed put. It did help that Gage was there, too, watchful. Worried.

If Olive was surprised to see the two men from the Sons in my living room, she didn’t show it. She didn’t show much other than concern about the neat stitches on my head. She’d done her own examination, of course. She would’ve stayed for the entire day, I knew that for sure, but she had shift at the hospital which I convinced her not to miss. She’d be back tomorrow, I knew that. Olive was shaken from all of this, from how close she’d gotten to losing her remaining child, which was what I was to her.

I didn’t tell my own mother, of course. The drugs made me feel foolish but not stupid.

Foolish enough to let Kace stay after Gage left.

The drugs had worn off. The kids had gone to bed, more than a little shaken that their only remaining parent had been in a car accident. Jack had been trying to stay staunch, as always, but he was visibly rattled. Lily hadn’t left my side since I came home, then brought me a mug full of M&M’S to help me feel better. We called it ‘M&M’ tea, only to be brought out in the direst of emotional situations. Like when Lily liked her first boy and he’d called her ‘weird’.

Once the pills had worn off, leaving me with my head throbbing, I felt overwhelming guilt for putting my kids through this again.

Kace had made dinner. Pasta bake. The kids had adored it. It didn’t taste like much of anything to me, but he forced me to eat it. Just like he’d hovered all day to make sure that I didn’t fall asleep and lapse into a coma.

I’d been getting texts and phone calls all day. Kace had apparently banned everyone from visiting, declaring that I needed time to rest.

So the alpha male bullshit has begun.

That text was from Bex, and I could practically see her shit-eating grin through the screen.

It seemed the visitor ban did not extend to presidents of MCs since Cade arrived not long after we put the kids to bed.

Yes, we.

Lily wanted Kace to read the story while I lay beside her until she fell asleep. It felt right and incredibly wrong at the same time.

Cade declined the offer of a beer, whisky or water. He was a man on a mission, it seemed. He had a family to get back to, so he didn’t fuck around.

“Someone cut your brakes,” Cade reported.

I blinked, pushing myself up from my position on the sofa. “What?”

Kace stood behind his president, body stiff, mouth straightened into a hard line. I’d never seen him like this. He’d kept it locked down throughout the day. He’d been intent on taking care of me, keeping me calm. Cooking. Distracting the kids from the stitches in their mother’s head serving as evidence that she could not only get hurt but could die like their father.

“Towed your car, took it to the garage,” Cade continued. “Something felt off, especially considering the crash. Brakes were cut. Clean. Definitely not an accident.”

Though Cade spoke in his even, cold tone, I knew he was angry. Knew he somehow blamed himself. That’s what these men did. They blamed themselves when something happened to people they were supposed to protect. The club was supposed to protect.

I was blindsided by this news. Although I had known something was wrong when I was driving. When nothing happened no matter how hard I stepped on the brakes. Ranger was religious about the upkeep of our vehicles. They were serviced every twelve months at the Sons of Templar garage. No way would someone have missed something like my brakes not working.

“Who would want to cut my brakes?” I wondered, more to myself than anyone else.

Cade’s lips were a thin line. “That’s what we’re tryin’ to figure out. Club doesn’t have beef with anyone right now. And anyone who would be holding a grudge against us sure as shit wouldn’t be targeting you.”

Yes, it made no sense that I’d be a target even to the most ruthless of gangs. They’d want to go for maximum hurt, inflicting the deepest wounds. Sure, if I’d died, it would be a hit to the club. A small cut. But there was no one wearing a Sons cut who loved me to