Our Secret Baby: War Riders MC, #1

By Paula Cox

Our Secret Baby is book 1 of the War Riders MC trilogy. Books 2 and 3, Our Secret Son and Our Secret Child are available everywhere now!

SHE KEPT OUR DAUGHTER HIDDEN FROM ME. TIME TO PAY THE PRICE.

I did the right thing once.
Never again.
No one takes what's mine.
Not even the mother of my child.

I saved Kayla from that hellhole.
Took in her, kept her safe, made her mine.
I put my neck on the line for that girl.

And what do I get in return?

Lies.
Deceit.
Betrayal.

I was good to her then, but no longer.
She owes me everything.
And I'm coming to take it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBook Publishing World
• Release date: Jan 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386702252

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OUR SECRET BABY: A Motorcycle Club Romance (War Riders MC Book 1)

By Paula Cox

SHE KEPT OUR DAUGHTER HIDDEN FROM ME. TIME TO PAY THE PRICE.

I DID THE RIGHT THING once.

Never again.

No one takes what’s mine.

Not even the mother of my child.

I saved Kayla from that hellhole.

Took in her, kept her safe, made her mine.

I put my neck on the line for that girl.

And what do I get in return?

Lies.

Deceit.

Betrayal.

I was good to her then, but no longer.

She owes me everything.

And I’m coming to take it.

Chapter One

Kayla

Ilie on the floor thinking that Master is going to come and give me a reading: that long, horrible process in which Master pinches each of your fingers and toes individually whilst aligning himself with the heavens to delve into your soul. I hate this process, hate the way Master pinches just a little too hard, seems to enjoy the wince in my face, in all the girls’ faces. I tighten up at the thought, wishing I could get away.

My mouth is dry, hair plastered with stale sweat to my head, tongue heavy, limbs leaden with exhaustion, pinned to the floor. I manage to lift my head and glance around. I am drugged; movement is difficult. I am lying in a small box of a room, bare apart from a grimy bed in the corner. The floor is stone, chilling me through my clothes, and dirty. One of the walls is not a solid, but contains a window which looks into a dimly lit hallway. It is the only clean thing in the room.

The Movement which I escaped from—cult, though they’re viciously opposed to that word—is into some shady things, but I’ve never heard of them kidnapping and imprisoning people like this. Oh, they kidnap and imprison people, but they do that with smiles and beckoning waves and promises of rent-free living. Is this them? I draw in a deep breath, hating the way my bones seem to rattle as it moves down into my chest. I’ve definitely been drugged. I can taste something metallic on my tongue. My gums feel raw, as though something has been rubbed forcefully into them. Then I rise slowly to my feet, having to grit my teeth as my legs threaten to buckle beneath me.

Where the hell am I?

I lift my hands into my hair. My hair is a tangle most of the time as it is, but now it feels even more tangled and twisted. I move my hands through it, and that’s when I find it: a flower. I slide it by the stem out of my hair and bring it to my face. A pink, open-petal, thorny-stemmed flower. In drop it when it pricks my fingers, and I can feel the place on my scalp where it’s cut into me. No, this is not the Movement. Maybe not. Or maybe even after running away I’m still underestimating them.

I look down at myself. I’m still wearing my cargo trousers and hoodie: a no-bullshit outfit. It matches my attitude these days. No bullshit. Just keep going. Just get it done. Over these past few years, I have become a rodent. I am not ashamed to call myself a rodent, even if I should be. A rodent scurries wherever it needs to scurry to be safe, tunnels, scampers here if here is safe, there if there is safe. That is who I have had to become to survive. You can’t have compunctions when you’re running from the devil. But as I search this room, there is nowhere for a rodent to scurry. The only thing I could possibly use to break the window is the bedframe, and that is bolted to the floor. The thin mattress, with a large coffee-colored stain over the sheets, won’t be much help there. If I am a rodent, I am a trapped rodent.

I limp to the window, which takes up the entire wall. My heart is hammering in my ears, making it hard to think, and yet simultaneously it sounds faraway. It’s like it’s hammering in my ears but I am floating somewhere above myself, drugged up, distant. I know this feeling well, I reflect as I lay my palm flat against the glass and push. Yes, I know this feeling well. I remember innumerable times growing up when it was easier to be outside myself. When Master would roam the Compound with his strange sideways smile, telling a woman he could heal her if she followed him to his office, and then as he strode over to me and stood over me and looked down into my face, and I knew, and he knew, and everybody knew what he was about to ask of this child—but then my mother, Sandra, would stand in front of me and say, ‘Oh, not today, Master,’ and for some reason he would listen. If there is a good person in the Movement, it is my mother.

I press against the glass, straining, but it is reinforced. This whole place—the bolted-down bed and the reinforced glass—is enough to make my mind start working overtime. But