He hesitates. “Tell me where.”
I lift one arm out the water, resting it on the edge of the tub. An invitation.
He moves closer, settling on the floor beside the bath. Close enough that I can feel his presence, solid and steady, without it being overwhelming.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He rests his forearm beside mine, careful not to touch unless I close the gap myself. When I do—when my fingers brush his wrist—he stills completely.
I watch his throat bob as he swallows.
“This,” I murmur, “this is nice.”
He lets out a quiet, breathless laugh. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Eventually, his hand comes up, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t touch me yet, just hovers, waiting.
“Can I?” he asks.
I nod. His fingers rest lightly over my knuckles, warm and familiar, and the contact sends a gentle shiver through me.
We stay like that for a long time, both lost in our own thoughts. Then, the baby kicks, just like it always does the second I relax. We both laugh, watching as my stomach moves and causes slight ripples across the water.
“You can feel, if you like,” I offer.
Kade’s smile widens as he nods, carefully placing his hand over the tight skin of my stomach. “It feels amazing,” he murmurs as our child digs his foot into Kade’s hand. “Like it’s trying to escape.” He sighs, sounding content. “You have to stay in there until your aunt returns, little one,” he adds, running his finger over my bump. “Or she’ll hate me for that too.”
Our eyes connect, and for a second, it’s like we’re on the same page. Like we both want this to be more. And then, he clears his throat and pushes to his feet. “You’ve shrivelling,” he says, “Let’s get you out.”
He helps me stand then holds out my towel, waiting for me to take it.
As I pass him, I pause, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes at the contact. “Anytime, Queenie.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
KADE
It’s a glimpse into the life Eden deserves. The one she needs.
We spend the weekend relaxed. We eat good food, watch films that avoid violence and anything that reminds us of our old life. We laugh and talk about the baby and who we think it looks like. We agree with my eyes and her nose, my lips and her brown hair. My sense of humour and her gentle temperament.
And it's nice.
But there’s a niggling feeling in the back of my mind that it’s not real. It’s fake. It’s a life we’re creating to avoid the heaviness of reality. That I’m a biker with a shady past and she’s a survivor who killed her attacker.
So, tonight, as I sit propped against the headboard of her bed, hands resting in my lap, eyes fixed on the window while the sky fades from dusky orange to murky black, I finally ask the question that’s been burning in my chest.
“Do you think about it?”
She turns her head slightly. “What?”
“Liam,” I say. “His ending.”
