I watch her from the doorway as she organizes the makeshift nursery we've set up in the room next to hers. Every onesie folded with military precision, every bottle lined up like soldiers. She's nesting, Izzy calls it, but it looks more like she's preparing for war.
"What if I'm a terrible mother?" Lena asks, not looking up from the tiny sock she's folding for the fourth time.
Izzy snorts from where she's assembling a crib that looks more complicated than a motorcycle engine. "Impossible. You've kept kids alive in crack houses with veterinary supplies. You'll be fine with your own kid in an actual nursery."
"That's different. Those weren't mine. I couldn't fuck them up with my genetics, my baggage, my—"
"Your love?" Izzy interrupts. "Because that's what he's getting. Love so fierce you've been fighting your own body for weeks to keep him safe."
Through the window, I can see both clubs gathering in the yard. Word spread that Santiago could come any day, and now we've got two dozen bikers on baby watch. There's even a betting pool—Joker's running it from the bar, odds updated hourly based on Lena's contractions.
Miguel's there too, leaning against his bike. Nine weeks since he nearly died, and he's still moving like a man held together by stubbornness and spite. But he's here. That means something.
"These pendejos are betting on my godson?" Izzy discovers the board when she goes for water.
"You want in?" Blade asks, grinning. "Still got the 15th open."
"Twenty on the 15th," she slaps the bill down. "And another twenty that he comes out swinging."
That's tomorrow. The thought makes my chest tight.
"You okay?" Lena's voice pulls me from my spiral. She's standing—barely—one hand on her back, the other on her belly.
"Shouldn't you be lying down?"
"Shouldn't you be running your club instead of lurking in doorways?"
"Ghost is handling—"
"Ghost is planning your overthrow." She waddles closer, and even massively pregnant, even exhausted, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. "You know that, right?"
"Let him try."
"This isn't a game, Zane. When Santiago comes, you'll be vulnerable. Distracted. He'll make his move then."
She's right. Ghost has been too quiet since our fight, too cooperative. It's the calm before a storm, and we're about to have a baby in the middle of it.
That night, neither of us can sleep. She's too uncomfortable, I'm too wired, and Santiago is apparently practicing for the Olympics in her uterus. We end up on the roof of the clubhouse—probably violating seventeen bed rest rules, but Morrison said he could come anytime now, so fuck it.
"Do you understand what you broke?" Lena asks suddenly, staring at the stars. "With the surveillance?"
The question hits like a punch. We've danced around this for weeks, but never addressed it directly.
"I thought I was protecting you."
"You turned me into a performance." Her voice is calm, clinical. "Every conversation, every moment of vulnerability—I thought I was sharing with you. But I was sharing with your entire club."
"It wasn't like that—"
"Wasn't it?" She turns to me, and in the moonlight, I can see tears she won't let fall. "Tell me, when I cried in your arms about my father, were you thinking about me or about what intel you could gather?"
"You. Always you."
"But they were listening. Ghost, Blade, whoever had access. They heard me at my weakest and you let them."
There's no defense for it. No explanation that doesn't sound like an excuse.
"I fucked up." The words are inadequate. "I violated something sacred and I can't take it back."
