"Good. Hold onto that fear. It'll make the relief sweeter when I walk back through that door."
We stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the world outside our window gray and waiting.
I try to memorize everything—the smell of him, the feel of his arms around me, the steady beat of his heart against my chest.
Just in case.
Just in case this is the last time.
The club leaves at six.
I stand in the doorway of the main room, watching them gear up.
Ruger checking his weapons.
Coin pulling on his leather jacket.
Maddox silent and still, a mountain of violence.
Ounce going over the plan one more time, his voice low and steady.
And Garrett. My husband. The father of my child—strapping a gun to his hip and another to his ankle, his face set in hard lines.
He catches my eye across the room and crosses to me, pulling me into one last embrace.
"Bracken and Porter are staying here," he says against my hair. "You won't be alone. The compound is locked down tight. Nothing's getting through those gates."
"I know."
"I'll call you when it's done. Shouldn't be more than a few hours."
"Okay."
He pulls back, studying my face. "You're going to be fine. The baby's going to be fine. And tomorrow, we're going to wake up in a world without Virgil in it."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He kisses me one more time—quick, fierce, full of promise—and then he's gone.
They all are.
The roar of motorcycles fills the compound, then fades into the distance, swallowed by the winter night.
The silence they leave behind is deafening.
"Come on." Tildie appears at my elbow, her smile too bright. "I'll make us some tea. We can watch a movie or something. Take your mind off things."
I let her lead me to the couch.
Let her fuss over me with blankets and pillows.
Let her chatter about nursery decorations and baby names and all the things that are supposed to matter.
But I can't focus, can't shake the feeling that something's wrong.
The baby kicks, hard, like it's trying to tell me something.
I put my hand on my stomach and try to breathe.
