"I believe you." Dr. Patterson smiled. "And congratulations, by the way. On the pregnancy. Given everything you've been through, it's remarkable that the baby is completely unaffected."
"Resilient," I said, my hand going to my still-flat stomach. "Like its mother."
"And its father," Dez added. "This kid doesn't stand a chance of being anything but stubborn."
Dr. Patterson left with instructions to call if I needed anything, and Dez went to order me food. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, processing everything.
Vincent was dead. I was safe. We were having a baby. The company was secure. And my husband had killed for me. Had hunted down the man who'd tried to destroy us and made him pay. I should probably feel something about that. Guilt, maybe. Horror at the violence. But all I felt was relief.
And love.
Love for the man who'd kept his promise, the baby growing inside me that we'd made together, and the life we were building, messy and complicated but absolutely perfect.
Dez returned with a tray of bland hospital food—broth, crackers, jello.
"Ew… This is sad," I observed.
"I know. Which is why Marco's bringing you real food tonight. Italian from that place you love." He helped me sit up, adjusting the pillows behind me. "But for now, you eat this and pretend to be grateful."
"I am grateful." I took his hand. "For all of it. For you. For keeping me safe." My voice caught. "For loving me enough to do what needed to be done."
"It protected you," he said simply. "I'd do it again. A thousand times over."
"I know." I pulled him down for a kiss. "I love you, husband."
"I love you too, wife." His hand covered mine on my stomach. "Both of you."
And sitting there in that hospital bed, battered but alive, with my husband's hand on our baby and his eyes full of love, I knew everything was going to be okay. We'd survived the worst. Now we got to live the best.
Together.
Marco
Imani was on my phone bitchin’ as I walked toward her room.
"—don't need you here, Marco. I'm fine. The doctor said I can leave tomorrow?—"
"The doctor said you can leave if someone's there to monitor you for signs of concussion. Which means you need someone."
"I have someone. I have three someones. My friends are perfectly capable of doing it."
"Your friends just went through the same trauma you did. They're exhausted, scared, and dealing with their own shit."
I pushed open the door to Imani's hospital room without knocking and disconnected the call.
She was sitting up in bed, arms crossed, glaring at the nurse who was trying to check her vitals. She had a bandage on her forehead, bruises blooming across her left cheekbone and jaw, and her right arm was in a sling from where she'd hit the pavement trying to shield herself. She looked furious, beautiful, and absolutely infuriating.
"Marco," she said, her voice going cold. "I thought I told you to leave."
"You did. I ignored you." I nodded at the nurse. "How is she?"
"Vital signs are good. No concussion, bruised ribs, sprained wrist. She's lucky because it could have been much worse." The nurse finished with the blood pressure cuff. "But she needs rest and someone to keep an eye on her for the next forty-eight hours."
"I'll do it."
"You will not," Imani snapped. "I don't need a babysitter!"
"Too bad. You're getting one." I settled into the chair beside her bed like I was planning to stay forever. "And before you argue, Dez already cleared it with the hospital. I'm on your approved visitor list. I can stay as long as I want."
