He walks up the steps, eyes dropping to my belly. His hand settles there like a reflex. Protective. In love.
“Still my favorite curve,” he murmurs.
I roll my eyes. “Flatterer.”
“I’m serious.” His thumb strokes small circles. “She’s kicking?”
“She was earlier. You missed it. Again.”
“Guess I’ll just have to stay closer.”
I laugh. “You already do everything. You built me a bathtub I can float in. You rub my feet. Every night.”
His eyes darken just a little. “Because I remember a time when nobody touched you gently.”
I reach for his hand. “That was a different life.”
He lifts my fingers to his mouth, kisses my knuckles one by one. “And this is the one you deserved all along.”
Sage dropped off fresh bread this morning. Nya sent more baby things. The whole town seems more excited about this baby than I am, and I’mveryexcited.
Sometimes I still can’t believe I get to have this. The man. The house. The future. The peace.
The world didn’t give it to me easy, but I took it anyway. We both did.
Diesel settles behind me in the porch swing, pulling me between his legs so my back rests against his chest. His arms fold around my waist, and for a moment we just sit, rocking gently, watching the clouds drift by.
“Do you still think about it?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t ask what I mean. “Yeah,” he says. “I think about what could’ve happened. I think about how close I came to losing you.”
“You didn’t,” I say.
“I could have.”
“But you didn’t.”
He tightens his hold. “I never will.”
I close my eyes. “They’re gone, you know.”
“Yeah.”
Malice was caught three months after the raid. Hiding in an underground bunker beneath a safehouse in Nevada. Ghost tracked him down. The Saints handled the rest.
He’s serving life without parole. So is John, who somehow survived that shoulder wound but didn’t survive the court system. Turns out when the right people start talking, the justice systemcanwork.
They can rot in those cells forever.
I don’t think about them often anymore. Not really. Their names don’t live in my nightmares the way they used to. These days, I dream of paint colors for the nursery. Of holding her for the first time. Of Diesel’s face when she kicks.
I rest my hands on my belly. “She’s going to love you,” I whisper.
“I hope so.”
“She will.” I turn my face toward his. “You protect what’s yours.”
He smiles, but it’s soft. Wrecked. “I don’t want her to grow up scared.”
