“No,” he said, his voice a rock. “Never.”
I opened my eyes, saw the dark bloom of his pupils swallowing the color from his irises. He pressed his palm against my cheek, thumb brushing under my eye. His hand was calloused, the kind of hand that never forgot work or pain or how to fight for what mattered.
He went to say something, but the words caught.
“It’s okay,” I said. “You can say it.”
He looked at my belly, at the rounded curve under my sweater, and his whole body went rigid. There was a shift in him, like a wolf sensing danger at the tree line—his apology evaporating, replaced by something darker, more primal.
“What did you mean,” he said, voice low, “about your father?”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “He’d never let this happen. He’d make me fix it.”
Macon’s jaw clenched so hard I could see the vein twitch beneath his beard. “Not going to let that happen,” he said. “Not ever.”
He dropped to one knee, right there on the linoleum, so sudden it felt like the air had gone out of the room. His hands found my hips, big and gentle and shaking, and he pressed his forehead to my bump. The warmth of him bled through the fabric and straight into my skin.
“No one,” he said, “is going to touch you or our child.”
My throat locked up. I didn’t trust myself to move.
He slid his hands up, resting both palms on my belly. The pressure was feather-light, but I could feel every whorl of his fingerprints, every ghost of old scars.
“I swear on my life,” he said, eyes bright and burning, “no one will ever harm either of you.”
My knees nearly gave. I threaded my fingers through his hair, not sure if I was steadying him or myself. “Macon,” I whispered, and the world spun on the axis of his name.
He looked up at me, and there was nothing but ferocity in the set of his jaw. He squeezed my hips, just enough to ground me, and for the first time in forever, I believed I might actually survive this.
The sound of boots on the porch snapped the spell. The back door swung open, and Rawley filled the doorway, broad and rigid and twice as pissed as I’d ever seen him. His eyes flicked from me to Macon, kneeling, hands on my belly, then back up to me.
“Someone want to tell me,” he said, voice flat as a graveyard, “what the hell is going on here?”
Macon didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened.
I looked at Rawley, then down at Macon, and for once, I didn’t want to run. “We’re having a baby,” I said, voice clear and strong.
Rawley’s jaw dropped, and he blinked twice, like he’d been hit upside the head with a shovel. “You—are you—” He turned to Macon, then to me, then back to Macon.
Macon’s voice was calm, but every syllable vibrated with violence barely caged. “I’ll die before I let anyone touch them, sir.”
Rawley stared at us, every muscle in his neck pulled tight as a piano wire. I expected him to start shouting, to grab Macon by the collar and drag him out back.
Instead, he exhaled, long and slow, and rubbed a hand over his face. “My brother?” he said, finally, and the words sounded like he’d never spoken them out loud before. “You knocked up my baby brother?”
Macon looked up at me, then back to Rawley. “Yes, sir.”
The silence was a living thing. I wanted to break it, but I didn’t know how.
Rawley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. Then, to me, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrugged, blinking back a sting in my eyes. “Didn’t know if you’d want me around. Or if you’d just want it all to go away.”
He came across the room, slow and deliberate, then stopped in front of us. For a second, I thought he might hit Macon, but instead he just stared, sizing up the two of us, like he was trying to decide if we were real.
“You’re keeping it?” he asked, softer now.
I nodded.
