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  Every Last Reason

  - His To Claim: Emerson & Delia -

  Christa Wick

  C.M. Wick

  Copyright © 2019 by Christa Wick

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, this book and any portion thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, reverse-engineered, decompiled, transferred, or distributed in any print or electronic form without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Participation in any aspect of piracy of copyrighted materials, inclusive of the downloading and obtainment of this book through non-retail or other unauthorized means, is in actionable violation of the author’s rights.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, media, brands, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and registered trademark owners of all branded names referenced without TM, SM, or (R) symbols due to formatting constraints, and is not claiming ownership of or collaboration with said trademark brands. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Evergreen Books Publishing

  Copy edits and line edits by GBI Author Services

  Proofreading by Rosa Sharon

  Cover design by Violet Duke

  Previously published as Emerson Drake (c) 2018 by Christa Wick.

  Contents

  Book Description

  1. Delia

  2. Emerson

  3. Delia

  4. Emerson

  5. Emerson

  6. Delia

  7. Delia

  8. Emerson

  9. Delia

  10. Emerson

  11. Delia

  12. Emerson

  13. Delia

  14. Emerson

  15. Delia

  16. Emerson

  17. Emerson

  18. Emerson

  19. Delia

  20. Delia

  21. Delia

  22. Emerson

  23. Delia

  24. Delia

  25. Delia

  26. Delia

  27. Delia

  28. Emerson

  29. Delia

  30. Delia

  Epilogue

  Thank You For Reading & Reviewing!!!

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  Also by Christa Wick

  About the Author

  Book Description

  I fell for her even though I knew better, and I walked away to protect us both.

  Now it’s three years later and I’m deep undercover with the FBI. Figures that the bikers I’m trying to take down would be targeting her; that’s just my damned luck.

  Ironically, she’s free to love anyone she wants now. But she doesn’t know that she can trust me. And I don’t know that I can trust myself to be around her again.

  Regardless, I’m going to keep her safe—with my life if it comes to it. Honestly, the risk to my survival, I’m trained to deal with. But the risk to my heart in all this? That’s a whole different story…

  The HIS TO CLAIM Series

  Book 1: Every Last Doubt (Adler & Sage)

  Book 2: Every Last Touch (Walker & Ashley)

  Book 3: Every Last Look (Barrett & Quinn)

  Book 4: Every Last Secret (Sutton & Maddy)

  Book 5: Every Last Reason (Emerson & Delia)

  Previously published as Emerson Drake (c) 2018, completely rewritten in first person POV and revised throughout with newly added content, and a different extended ending.

  1

  Delia

  I dropped a patient record in the finished box, spun left and stopped dead in my tracks. Dr. Archibald Franklin, head of the Billings Urgent Care Clinic, stood in front of me. With less than a few inches separating our bodies, the scowl etched onto his usually placid features sent my heart rate spiking.

  "Come with me, Nurse Mays."

  His voice was gravelly, but he was in his early seventies. He often sounded a bit rough, especially in the morning. Only the scowl was out of place.

  As I fell in line behind him, I flashed through everything I had done since beginning my shift. I had been onsite an hour, arrived to my nursing clinicals on time, and had seen one patient. The nurse practitioner had supervised what turned out to be a thoroughly routine visit. So, if Franklin was annoyed specifically at me, it was from another day.

  Only a couple of weeks into clinicals, I couldn't think of anything I had done wrong in that short span of time. In fact, Franklin and the rest of the experienced staff had seemed pleasantly surprised at my performance.

  Stopping abruptly, he jabbed a knobby finger toward the medical supply room.

  "Prep a suture tray and bring it to Exam Three."

  I tapped my badge against the security scanner. "Size, Doctor?"

  His mouth danced like he was chewing on gristled meat.

  "Give me a five…absorbable so the bastard won't come back."

  The mild swear word surprised me despite all the years I had served as a Boston paramedic in what felt like another life. It was impossible to work as any kind of first responder without absorbing some of the most colorful dirty words in the world. But Dr. Franklin was the kind of old school gentleman who, if he swore, didn't do it around women.

  Whatever was going on in Exam Three, the patient had clearly gotten under his skin.

  "Five it is," I said, pushing a smile onto my face.

  He flicked a finger against my badge. "Keep it in your pocket until these thugs are out of my clinic."

  He spun on one heel, his steps quickly carrying him toward Exam Three. With the same haste, I slipped into the supply room and gathered all the items Franklin might need.

  Suture scissors, disinfectant, syringe, saline solution, a No. 5 absorbable suture…

  With the mystery of the old man's mood solved, I smiled with genuine enthusiasm as I made a final inventory of the tray. My expression flashing over to a grin, I headed for Exam Three. Finding the door shut, I knocked then waited in the hall until Franklin called me in.

  The clinic's rooms were small, no more than five-by-eight, the exam table narrow and placed close to the wall in each instance. Three bodies already crowded the space. There was Dr. Franklin, of course, and a thick pair of dangling legs that presumably connected to the rest of the patient.

  A third body blocked the rest of my view. The body belonged to a tall, broad-shouldered male. Dark leather covered him from his riding boots up to the collar of his heavy jacket. Turned away from me, all I could see was his clothing, thick black hair cut short, and a tattoo on the back of his neck.

  Stepping further into the exam room, I caught the acrid scent of bike exhaust and other unpleasant odors.

  "About fuckin' time," the patient growled.

  Despite his own mild swearing just a few minutes earlier, Franklin shot me a concerned look. I returned a calm smile. I had patients pull knives and guns on me in Boston. Mere obscenities were positively quaint.

  Clearing my throat, I directed my attention toward the patient's companion, mentally designating him as Creep Number Two.

  "If you're going to stay, you need to move to the side, sir."

  Without looking at me, Creep Two braced his shoulders like he was ready to fight. I braced in turn, my gaze ricocheting from the corded muscles along the side of his neck down to his clenched hands.

  "You bring a mouthy bitch with you, Doc?" the patient asked.

  "I brought the best nurse for the job."

  Despite its broken, raspy quality, Franklin's voice had taken on an edge as sharp as any of his scalpels. I gave him a slight nod then repeated my earlier command for the visitor to move.

  Creep Two slid like a ghost on ice skates, blocking me one second, behind me the next without so much as a flash of his face. I wanted to turn, wanted to measure his emotional reaction to a woman ordering him to do anything. And that part of my brain buried down at the base of my skull, the animal part, wanted to see his face, wanted to know if it was as appealing as the muscled butt his leather riding pants gripped with lascivious abandon.

  Yeah, he was a creep, but I noticed that ass.

  A blind nun would have noticed.

  Suppressing my curiosity, I moved closer to Dr. Franklin and Creep One. Not only did I get a full view of the patient, I got a full snout, too. My stomach churned as I tried to limit myself to very shallow breaths. Beyond the odor of exhaust and engine grease that cloaked both men, the patient reeked of what smelled like cat piss.

  In a clinical setting with an urban population and a middle-aged patient, the strong odor of ammonia most likely meant the patient was a heavy meth user or a manufacturer. Based on his overall appearance, I wouldn't rule out that he was both.

  "Let's see what we're dealing with," Franklin began.

  I turned my attention to the nearly three-inch gash across the left cheek of Creep One. The wound was the least disturbing thing about his face. Dirt and oil stained the skin. The matted brown and gray beard crawled down below his collarbone. Lint and other things my stomach shrank from identifying threaded their way between the hairs.

  Even his lips managed to be both cracked and greasy.

  I snapped on my gloves and poured antiseptic solution into a metal bowl.

  "Follow with a saline irrigation," Franklin said.

  "Yes, Doctor."

  "Yes, D
octor, yes!" The patient mimicked me with an overexcited falsetto and a lurid grin. "You want to play doctor with me, Nursie?"

  Forcing a neutral expression, I filled the syringe with saline solution then wet a gauze pad with antiseptic. Creep or not, I dabbed softly at his cheek—until he skirted Franklin's gaze and rested his sausage-like fingers against my hip.

  I dabbed a little harder at the wound. The fingers continued their game against my side. I tapped the gauze harder and faster. He didn't wince or pull back, just flashed his greasy smile. I moved on to the saline irrigation, pulling the edges of the wound apart and squirting.

  Impervious to the salt's sting, he slid his fingers higher. Reaching the bottom hem of my scrub shirt, he tried to push under the fabric. Jerking away, I body slammed Creep Two.

  My right foot lost contact with the floor. I was going down—and leading with my face until a strong arm molded around my lower torso. The opposite hand grabbed my armpit and pushed upward.

  The functional embrace lasted just long enough for me to regain control of my body. As soon as I had my feet under me, I jerked away and tried to squash the urge to look at Creep Two—my unexpected rescuer.

  Something was very wrong. Wrong beyond whatever had irritated Franklin. Wrong beyond the clearly unsavory patient. Wrong because Creep Two's touch had sent an electric jolt through me. The sensation was something I had only felt twice before.

  The first time had been my husband, Ken. The second, my sister's boss at the FBI. Both men, in the end, had abandoned me. My husband joined the Army and then he died. Emerson Turk, the bad-ass and oh-so-special FBI agent, had ghosted out of Boston before that and taken my sister with him.

  Creep Two was tall with black hair.

  So was Emerson Turk.

  Still trying to deny the possibility, I looked over my shoulder.

  The man's features slowly came together. Full lips surrounded by a short, bristly attempt at a beard and mustache; heavy black brows and lush eyelashes so thick it looked like he wore eyeliner. Caged between that heavy fringe of black, an angry blue gaze as dark as midnight bored into me.

  Yep, Creep Two was Emerson.

  "Watch it," he growled, not a hint of recognition flashing across his stern features.

  The patient sniggered. "Someone needs to train her good."

  Lips thinning, I nodded at Franklin. "The wound is clean, Doctor. I have the five gauge prepared for you."

  The old man's face puckered. For a second, I imagined him sending me back to the supply room for a gauge that would leave the patient with a messier scar. I certainly needed the timeout to wrap my head around Emerson's presence and the strange persona he had put on.

  Was he supposed to be some kind of outlaw biker? That could only mean he was deep undercover, but I had received no hint something was going on. And the tattoo! It wasn't there a month ago when I had briefly encountered him at his mother's house. His hair had been longer then, but not long enough to cover the ink job.

  Makeup, maybe. His mother had chided him that day about being too good to work up a sweat.

  "Yes, Nurse, we'll go with the five."

  Franklin's words sliced through my chaotic thoughts as he moved into position in front of the wounded biker and held out his hand.

  "I'll need a local anesthetic."

  I passed Franklin a syringe filled with a dose of lidocaine.

  "What about after?" the patient asked.

  Ignoring the strain in the man's eyes, Franklin pushed the needle deeper.

  "Any liver problems?" he asked, his mouth a flat line.

  "Nope."

  "Good," Franklin smirked. "I suggest some Woodford Reserve for the pain. Your injury doesn't warrant a prescription."

  I offered needle and thread to the doctor, then brought the back of my hand close to my mouth, my gaze locked on the wound as I tried not only to focus on my job, but to hide the crazy jumble of emotions racing through my body.

  Even if he was undercover, why the hell had Emerson come to my clinic?

  Did he even know it was my clinic?

  Of course he didn't know, I sniped, my hand returning to the tray in anticipation of Franklin's next need. Emerson probably didn't even know I had started clinicals.

  He didn't care to know.

  The realization pinched at my nose. Before he ghosted me in Boston, I had thought of him as a friend. He had certainly been friendly enough. Beyond helpful, too. Then he left for Montana and hauled my sister Maddy along with him.

  All without saying goodbye.

  "Needle driver," Franklin ordered.

  I handed the instrument over. Behind me, Emerson tapped softly at the screen on his phone.

  "Who the fuck you texting?" the patient demanded through clenched teeth. "You ratting me out to Junker?"

  "No one." Emerson flashed the phone at the man, his hand darting past my shoulder. "Making a fantasy baseball trade is all. Don't be paranoid."

  The biker shifted his head to look then roared in pain.

  "Fuck, Doc!"

  The old man kept his temper without dropping a single stitch.

  "Maybe you should lie back or at least stop moving," he suggested.

  The patient grabbed at my arm. "Only if this bitch promises to climb on top of me."

  I jerked out of reach, slamming straight into Emerson's hard body once more. He bumped me forward with a hiss.

  "Definitely needs training," the biker said, mouth puckering to blow a wet kiss with his overripe lips.

  "Certainly doesn't belong anywhere around here," Emerson said.

  Back teeth grinding, I checked the doctor's progress then grabbed the scissors. Franklin handed me the needle driver.

  "Hold, please."

  I drew a quiet breath, my hand calm as I kept the instrument steady while Franklin clipped the end of the suture.

  "Take care of the tray, Nurse."

  A glance at Franklin confirmed that the old man was subtly giving me permission to leave. I nodded, gathered everything up and turned to go.

  Emerson had moved from where I last collided with him to a spot next to the door. His attention seemed focused on his phone, but his gaze flicked up as I approached.

  The blue eyes were narrow, menacing.

  With a fresh ache in my chest, I realized I had never really known the man.

  2

  Emerson

  Greg Burch, the club enforcer for the Billings chapter of the Steel Tide MC, bulldozed his way to the front of the checkout desk at the Urgent Care Clinic and counted off four-hundred dollars in cash without asking the amount of his total bill. With eyes pulled wide in fear, the desk clerk looked around for help as Burch stormed toward the exit.

  Hoping the staff had the good sense not to chase after him, I followed the biker outside. He was on his phone before the door swung shut behind us. Reaching his motorcycle, he swung a leg over the seat, jabbed at the phone and selected another number.

  "Lazy motherfuckers can't answer a fucking call!" he growled.

  Scoping the clinic's parking lot and street for security cameras, I kept silent. With a club nickname of Hatchet, Burch was a bona fide sociopath. Still an outsider to the group, I had seen him return to the clubhouse covered in blood, some of it from the dogs the club fought, some of it from the human cage matches that were rumored to occur.

  "You!" he shouted, a thick finger poking in my direction. "You get that bitch's name?"

  "Badge was stuffed in her pocket," I answered, voice terse as I tried to keep my rage from boiling up. That Hatchet didn't already have Delia's name was the one thing keeping him alive.