I leaned against him, watching the Florida landscape blur past, trying to process everything that's happened in the last twelve hours.
Kidnapped. Held at knifepoint. Rescued. And through it all, the baby held on.
Our baby.
The doctor cleared me with instructions to rest, keep the wounds clean, and follow up with an OB in the next few weeks.
She gave me a list of prenatal vitamins to start taking, printed instructions for care during the first trimester, and a referral to one of the best obstetricians in Tallahassee.
The cuts on my throat and stomach are superficial—they'll heal without scarring if I'm careful.
The bruises will fade. The memories... those will take longer.
But I'm alive. The baby is alive. And RJ hasn't let go of my hand since we left the hospital.
The clubhouse is quiet when we pull in, the compound bathed in the soft glow of security lights.
Most of the members are probably at Bubba's, celebrating the successful rescue or processing what happened in their own ways.
Violence takes a toll, even on men who deal in it regularly.
A few prospects nod at us as we pass, their expressions respectful, almost reverent.
Word has spread.
The president's daughter was taken, and they got her back.
The men who took her are dead.
The woman behind it all has a bullet in her brain.
In the MC world, that's a victory worth celebrating.
RJ takes me straight to the basement, settling me on the bed like I'm made of glass.
He's been handling me like this since the hospital—gentle, careful, like I might shatter if he's too rough.
Part of me wants to tell him I'm not that fragile.
Another part of me doesn't mind being treated like something precious.
"You need anything?" he asks, hovering by the bed. "Water? Food? Another blanket? I can run up to the kitchen?—"
"I need you to stop hovering." But I'm smiling as I say it. "I'm okay, RJ. Really."
"You were kidnapped and held at knifepoint less than twelve hours ago. You're carrying our child. You're covered in bandages." He crosses his arms, stubborn. "I'm going to hover."
"And I'm home. With you." I pat the bed beside me. "Sit down. Please. You're making me anxious."
He sits, but the tension doesn't leave his shoulders.
I don't think it will for a while.
He's going to be impossible for the next few months—overprotective, paranoid, jumping at every shadow.
And honestly? I don't mind.
After what we went through, a little paranoia feels justified.
