"No." Lena's hand finds her belly, protective and possessive. "But Santiago needs both parents close. And I need..." she trails off, looking at me. "I need to not do this alone."
"Just don't lose yourself," Izzy warns, but she's looking at me when she says it.
That night, I text Ghost:
Lena's moving in. Bed rest orders. No drama.
His response comes immediately:
Pussy making you soft. This club needs real leadership.
Tommy's warning echoes:
Don't let him tear this club apart.
But right now, watching Lena sleep fitfully in a hospital bed, our son's heartbeat steady on the monitor, the club feels very far away. Everything feels far away except this—her, him, us.
The breaking point isn't dramatic. It's this: choosing them over everything else and knowing it makes me vulnerable in ways that could destroy us all.
Worth it.
Chapter forty-three
Too Soon
Lena
The locked room at the Iron Talons clubhouse smells like leather and motor oil trying to mask decades of cigarette smoke—a perfume of poor decisions that feels fitting for my thirty-third week of pregnancy. My body has become a prison and Santiago the warden, every movement monitored, every step forbidden by Dr. Morrison's orders.
"This is where you're nesting?" Izzy surveys the space with the expression she reserves for particularly questionable life choices. "In a biker clubhouse? With a lock that looks like it came from a middle school locker?"
"It's temporary." I'm folding the same onesie for the third time, my hands needing the motion even if my brain knows it'spointless. The fabric is soft, innocent—everything this situation isn't.
"Mija, you're arranging baby clothes in a room that probably hosted orgies." She helps me sit on the bed, her nurse's hands automatically checking my ankles for swelling. "This is not temporary. This is surrender."
"It's survival." The words scrape my throat like broken promises. "Santiago needs—"
"Santiago needs a mother who hasn't lost herself to dick that comes with felony charges."
The truth of it sits in my chest like swallowed glass. Through the thin walls, I can hear Zane giving orders, his voice carrying that particular authority that makes my vagina file protest letters while simultaneously composing sonnets. My body is a traitor to my better judgment—a biological imperative wrapped in stretch marks and swollen joints.
"Just don't lose yourself," Izzy says, arranging my medications with the precision of someone who's seen too many women disappear into dangerous men. "These pills keep Santiago inside. But what's keeping you intact?"
Before I can answer—not that I have an answer—the silence stretches like a held breath. My phone buzzes with a text I don't recognize, another unknown number that could be anyone. Could be Miguel, still not talking to me. Could be the cliniccalling about permits. Could be another threat. I let it go unanswered.
The next three days blur into a routine of forced stillness. Bed rest sounds restful until you're living it—then it becomes a special kind of torture designed for people who define themselves by their usefulness. I can't work. Can't walk more than ten steps. Can't even shower without someone hovering outside the door like I'm on suicide watch.
My body has become a ticking time bomb, every twinge potentially the start of labor. This morning brought fresh blood—not much, just spotting—but enough to send Zane into a panic that resulted in an emergency trip to the hospital.
"Thirty-three weeks and two days," Dr. Morrison says, her hands cold on my belly as she examines me. "Better than last week, but still not ideal."
"How much longer can I hold him?" The question feels like begging.
"Every day counts. But your cervix is softening. He's dropped lower. Your body is preparing whether we want it to or not."
Back at the clubhouse, I'm marooned on the bed while Zane paces. He's been sleeping on the floor beside my locked door—not inside, because boundaries matter even when they're tissue-paper thin—but close enough that I hear him startle awake every time I shift positions.
"Stop hovering," I tell him. "You're making me nervous, and stress triggers contractions."
