Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
We make it to his bed one kiss at a time.
He lays me down, hands brushing over my belly like it’s a sacred thing. I kiss his jaw, his neck, the scar near his collarbone that he never talks about.
He’s slower now—different than the last time. It’s not just sex. It’s connection.
His hand slides under my shirt, and I let him feel the curve of my stomach. I watch his expression shift. Not fear. Not uncertainty.
Just awe.
He undresses me like he’s memorizing every new mark and curve. His hands on my hips, mouth on my shoulder, eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice thick.
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe. But I’m not wrong.”
When he’s inside me, it’s not about forgetting. It’s about remembering. Who we are, what we’ve survived, how fragile and raw we’ve both become.
I clutch him to me like I need him to anchor me.
And when I come apart, it’s not loud. It’s not wild.
It’s quiet and deep and so full of love that I could cry. After, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest, his fingers stroking slow circles into my back.
Neither of us speaks for a while.
We don’t need to.
Eventually, I whisper, “I don’t know what happens next.”
“I do,” he murmurs.
I look up. “Yeah?”
“We keep going.”
THIRTEEN
TOON
"In the darkest forest, the bear finds its way; trust your instincts." — Unknown
Setting up for a baby shower is not something I ever expected to be doing.
But here I am.
In the clubhouse main room, knee-deep in balloons, ribbon, and a box labeled “baby-themed chaos” that Doll put together. She promised to show up in a couple hours to “girl it up,” but she left me strict instructions in the meantime.
BW is no help. He’s sitting on the edge of the pool table, tossing the fancy candied almonds in his mouth and offering critiques like he’s judging a damn interior design contest.
“That banner’s crooked,” he says, nodding at the “Welcome Baby Benji” streamer I’ve just finished taping to the wall.
I look up, squint. “You’re crooked.”
“Seriously, it’s drooping on the left.”
“You’re about to be drooping from the left if you don’t shut up.”
He chuckles and tosses another almond in his mouth. “Relax, man. You’re doing fine.”
I grunt, stepping back and eyeing the room. It doesn’t scream Hellion. Even though Dia was firm in no blue decorations. The nursery is motorcycle themed in black and red of course and while she will be fine with putting her son in blue, the décor for her shower needed to be in our colors.
There’s a table for gifts. Plates and cups and little favors that say “Born to Ride” with tiny motorcycles on them. I thought it was cheesy at first. Still do. But Dia’s eyes lit up when I showed her the sample photo, so that’s all that matters.
This shower it’s not about the baby gear or the cake or even the club showing up to eat all the food. It’s about showing her that this child, whoever their father is on paper, will never go without.
Not as long as I breathe. Not as long as the Hellions are standing. He’s ours.
Me breathing, that’s where the problem is.
Because I don’t know how long that is. I know what the doctors say and I know what I feel, but some days it is hard to believe it and remain hopeful. Even when I overcome this, will cancer come back somewhere else? These things never crossed my mind before. But being in it, living it, I can’t shake the worry about what my future is.
I take a break from setting up and step out into the yard behind the clubhouse. The air’s cooler today, a slow shift toward fall finally crawling across North Carolina. I sit on one of the picnic tables and stretch my back, wincing as the ache shoots through my side.
I pull out a pill from my pocket, anti-nausea, nothing serious, but my hand pauses mid-air.
Footsteps crunch the gravel behind me.
“Figured I’d find you out here,” Tripp says.
I slide the pill back in my pocket and straighten up. This is a conversation I should have already had. When my hair only thinned instead of completely falling out, it was like it bought me more time not to tell everyone. I can’t keep hiding it, though. Heaven forbid something happen to me, Dia doesn’t need to carry the weight of this too.
He doesn’t sit right away. Just studies me with that same unreadable expression he’s worn since I prospected. He knows something’s off. Of course he does. Talon “Tripp” Crews sees everything. He may not be Roundman, but he’s not far off from the man in how he reads the club.
“Got a minute?” I ask.
He nods once and drops onto the bench across from me. “Always.”
I stare at the ground for a second, grounding myself.
Then I say it. “I know you sense it. So I need to just say it.”