Page 85 of His Loyal Rebel

His bellow echoed in the bare room of the house. She cringed, not able to get a word in during all of Whip's questions. All he wanted to do was bust Big's head.

Once he was done doing that, he probably wanted to break up with her, but he couldn't see that now.

But, he would.

"It's in the bedroom." She lifted her hands. "I'm telling you; I'll give it back to him. Then, he'll stop bothering me."

"Where is it?"

He kept ignoring her. Only focused on the gun, she hurried down the hallway into the bedroom to get it for him.

Finding her winter coat in the closet, she slid her hand into the pocket and pulled out the pistol. She returned to him and held out the weapon.

"Are you going to give it back to him?" she asked.

He popped out the clip, looked at the gun, and put it back together again. "This is Big's?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

Exasperated, she raised her hands in the air. "Of course, I'm sure. I stole it from Big's closet when I left him."

Not knowing what else to tell him, she paced. He could ask all the questions he wanted, but her answers weren't going to change. She was telling the truth.

He held the pistol up, peering at each side. Then, he walked over to the window and took out the clip again, making quick work of removing the three remaining bullets.

The longer he studied them, the harder his mouth grew until she was afraid of saying anything.

Finally, he walked out of the room and into the kitchen. She followed him. Afraid he'd ride off now and confront Big. Nothing would stop him from killing her ex-boyfriend.

She understood his hatred for everyone involved in Cusclan. But she didn't want to lose him.

Anything could happen. Big could shoot Whip. Whip could shoot Big. He could go to prison.

Whip dumped the gun and bullets on the Formica counter, then stepped away from it as if he was afraid of the weapon. He looked at her. The wildness in his eyes made her flinch.

"What's wrong?" she whispered, unable to stop herself.

His upper cheek twitched, and he ran his hand down his face before looking away from her. "This can't be fucking happening," he murmured.

Worried, she approached him, putting her hand on his back. He stiffened under her touch.

"I'm sorry." She paused. "I wish I never stole the gun."

"It's not you." His chest expanded, and he shook his head. "I need to make a call."

More confused, she backed out of the room and went into the bedroom. Giving him space, she looked at the bed. They both hated making the bed and left it in disarray every morning, usually after having sex.

They were slowly turning the house into their home.

His clothes mingled with hers in the closet. Her bag of makeup sat on the counter of the bathroom beside an electric shaver that he never planned to use—yet, he kept it because his dad bought it for him when he was thirteen years old.

She straightened the sheet, spread out the blanket, and pulled up the bedspread. For some reason, she wanted one piece of furniture to be perfect.

"Sis?"

She hurried out of the room, hopeful Whip had calmed and was wanting to talk sensibly now. "Yes?"