“What if this destroys everything?” he asked in that quiet frustration. “Missions were missions, and we all knew the cost.But this? These are our families, Gray. These are our wives and our—” He choked over the next word and swallowed thickly.
I nodded absentmindedly for a long while before muttering, “Briggs, I know you don’t want to think it, but what Einstein was saying was right.”
“We aren’t in the mafia,” he ground out.
“No,” I agreed carefully. “But we’ve been working with them, even when we didn’t realize it. And, more importantly, we have a mafia family—families—who want nothing more than to take you down. That includes anyone connected to you. We might not be mafia, but we’re connected to them in a lot of ways. We’re in that world.”
Briggs’ eyelids slowly shut, but it was evident in his expression that I wasn’t informing him of anything he didn’t already know. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself and was drowning under the regret of it all since this feud with the Wreckers had started with him.
“Our families are already in danger,” I told him unnecessarily. “Might as well use ARCK while they’re offering the help.”
After a handful of seconds, he gave a firm nod.
“Heard from Rush this afternoon?”
The cold look he sent me told me he hadn’t, but he just jerked his chin toward the hallway behind me, and asked, “How’s Monroe?”
I shifted backward instinctively, feeling that call toward her even stronger now that she’d been mentioned. “She knows she can’t fight right now. She isn’t happy, but she understands.” At the subtle doubt furrowing Briggs’ brow, I added, “Sort of.”
He grunted in acknowledgment, then took his own step away, silently releasing me. “I need to talk to Lainey before I talk to ARCK.”
“Yep,” I said, already starting away from him, only to rock back and ask, “Where will they be staying? Those four wouldn’t have fit in here, and Kieran said there were more of them.”
“Not my problem,” Briggs muttered as he stalked off.
Right.
Running a hand through my hair, I gripped at the strands and tried to mentally prepare for everything ahead of us...and me.
ARCK coming in with their implications. Evans’ grudge against them. A potential mafia war. When andifRush was coming back. And how Mallory was going to handle sitting all this out.
But when I opened the door to our borrowed room, ready to talk and argue out all her frustrations, I found her exactly the same way I had earlier—knees tucked close to prop up her drawing tablet—only this time, she was out cold.
In an instant, the familiar panic that had crept in all week stole through my veins as I quickly, instinctively searched for signs that she was breathing. A panic that had, thankfully, lessened each time I’d turned my head and found her unexpectedly asleep, or walked into a room to find her like this.
But just as I knew she was going to keep reaching for her stomach until she started showing and feeling our baby move, at the very least, it was going to take a while for me to get past the memory of her not breathing.
Grabbing the drawing tablet from her, I felt a smile curl at the edges of my mouth when I realized she hadn’t even managed to open the cover before falling asleep. Setting it and the stylus on the nightstand, I closed the blinds and curtains before carefully straightening her legs and climbing onto the bed beside her.
Easing my arm through hers, I slid my hand down until my fingers were pressed against the inside of her wrist. Letting thefaint yet steady beat of her pulse against my fingertips ease every tense muscle in my body as I shut my own eyes.
Only for them to snap back open at her soft, stuttered inhale. “I know what you’re doing,” she whispered seconds later.
“Go back to sleep, Peach.”
More seconds passed before she conceded with a weighted breath and slowly, carefully turned onto her side.
Once I was curled around her and holding her close, fingers pressed against her pulse point, she drowsily whispered, “Don’t get used to getting your way.”
My chest hitched with amusement. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
When I woke that night, Gray was gone, and my hand was on my stomach. My flat stomach.
As if, even in sleep, I couldn’t escape the horrifying acceptance that this life inside me was going to die with me, or the devastating possibility we’d been told to prepare for, even after I’d woken and stayed awake in the hospital.
“Despite the changes we’ve seen, it’s likely the fetus won’t survive.”
“Too much trauma. Too much blood lost.”
