Page 13 of Damon
“What was that?” he snarls, his expression changing from relaxed to fierce in a heartbeat. “Are you threatening me, Emma?”
“No, but I have parental rights on her birth. This child is genetically related to me. I could make things difficult if I wanted to. You need me, Damon, to sign on the dotted line after the birth.” I emphasize the word after.
“I am well aware of UK surrogacy laws. Trust me, this baby has been the result of years of heartbreak and failed hope.” He leans toward me, his nose almost touching mine. My eyes close automatically as I will our lips to touch. They don’t, but his breath tickles my skin. “I will take your snide comment as induced by hormones. You assured both Connie and I that you didn’t want a child. If that has changed, feel free to go and get knocked up once my daughter is born. But make no mistake, Emma, this baby is mine.”
“You need me,” I repeat, my voice wavering along with my confidence. I open my eyes and see that he is still in my space. Ruthless pupils dilate as he glares.
“You don’t want to make an enemy out of me. Tomorrow, we’re going to view these apartments. No arguments. Any ridiculous notions of you staying in my home end today. Do you understand?” I nod, slightly taken aback but perversely aroused by the dominant man laying my life out before my eyes. “This baby, my daughter, will be born as agreed, and you will sign over all parental responsibility to me. You will then move on with your life, accept the financial support willingly, and make something of yourself.”
“What about the breastmilk?” I say, wanting to argue some more and divert the topic of conversation.
“What about it? You can express in your own home, and I’ll arrange collection. We don’t need to see each other. And you don’t need to take any part in my daughter’s life.” I square my shoulders, my breasts wobbling beneath the cotton. His gaze drops momentarily then returns to my eyes. “I don’t want you in my life either.”
Chapter six
Titan MMA Gym
Damon
Hunter is buckled over laughing loudly as I retell the story of Emma in my kitchen this morning. His deep throaty voice reverberates around the empty gym, bouncing off the concrete walls.
“She has guts,” he says, trying to control his laughter. “Sitting in your kitchen threatening not to sign over the baby in her belly.”
“Or a death wish,” his right-hand man, James Greyson, adds. Hunter nods in agreement.
“Or that.”
James and I have a lot in common. He’s an ex-police officer, so he understands a lot of the pressures applied to me within the force. He made the decision to leave and work with Hunter full-time a year ago. His role within his boss’s eclectic business is varied. He spends a lot of time chasing down suspects before law enforcement can, then doling out whatever punishment Hunter thinks may be appropriate for their crimes.
Originally from Glasgow, he still maintains a thick Scottish accent, which becomes even harder to understand when he drinks. My only real dealings with him happen here at the gym owned by Hunter or on a random unplanned drinking session. We train together in mixed martial arts and teach a few classes each per week to young offenders.
I wouldn’t call him a friend, and I’m not sure Hunter would either. But as an enforcer within the Irish mafia in London, he’s certainly a man I would rather have on my side.
“I think the girl may have a crush on you, McKinney,” Hunter suggests.
“She’s pregnant. It’ll be hormones.”
“I’ve heard pregnant women can be as horny as hell,” he continues. “Not that I’ve ever had one. That would be a complication I don’t need.”
“Oh, they can be,” Greyson says with confidence.
“You have a kid?” I ask, surprised. He shakes his head.
“No but my brother has three, and he assures me that his sex life is even better when she has a bun in the oven. I’m sure that is why number four is on the way now.”
We all laugh, then return to our respective punching bags. It feels good to let off some steam in the gym. MMA gives me the opportunity to fight and train with likeminded people in a place I feel at home.
Hunter’s gym is located in an old basement in the city center. Membership is strictly by invite only. He uses the MMA courses supplied to young offenders through a charity scheme to bolster his men and train recruits from the bottom up. It was my knowledge of MMA that originally brought Hunter and I together—it just so happened that the worlds we work in also intertwined and ultimately brought about our friendship.
For forty minutes, we work individually, taking our daily frustrations out on our relevant punching bag. Greyson’s black sack swings wildly at the end of the chain attached to a steel beam at the ceiling. Hunter got bored and is leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone.
“So, McKinney,” he calls, glancing up from the screen. “Are you any further forward on Connie’s case? Any new developments?”
I pause mid-punch. I haven’t told my friends yet about the message dropped through my door this morning. I was going to wait and tell everyone tonight at The Level.
“I received a note.”
He immediately straightens and strides over to my side, grabbing the swinging equipment then glaring at me. “A note? From who? When? And why the fuck didn't you tell me?”