Page 2 of Reckless

“Victoria?”

“I was fairly certain they were Braxton Hicks.”

“How long?”

She inhales through her nose, and there is the smallest tremor in it this time. “About three hours.”

For one full second, I forget every word I have ever learned. “Three… hours?”

“In my defense, I have been very busy.”

“You have been rearranging the pantry. Again!”

“Exactly. Busy.”

“Victoria, you have been in labor for three hours while alphabetizing pasta?”

“It wasn’t only pasta.”

I open my mouth, but whatever comes out of me dies the moment her face changes.

It starts subtly, which is somehow worse. Her eyes lose focus first, sliding past me toward some point on the far wall, and then every muscle in her body seems to pull tight from the inside. One hand skids across the counter until she catches the edge, her rings scraping a thin, awful sound against the stone, and her shoulders round forward as the contraction rolls through her hard enough to steal the argument from both of us.

The air in the kitchen shifts.

Thickens.

The contraction steals every ounce of movement except the grip she has on the island. Her jaw locks, her breathing quickens, and she rides it out in near silence while the rest of the clubhouse carries on beyond the kitchen, blissfully unaware that the world has just shifted beneath her feet.

That’s what scares me.

Not the water.

Not the three hours of contractions.

The fact that Victoria Delaney, who can verbally dismantle grown men before coffee, is gripping the kitchen counter with both hands and trying not to let me know she is hurting.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

“Sin, Victoria’s in labor!” My voice rips out before I even think. It tears through the kitchen and punches into the main room. For one heartbeat, every conversation dies.

Then everything erupts.

A chair scrapes back so violently it hits the floor. Someone swears. Poker chips scatter across timber with a sharp, plastic clatter. The music cuts off halfway through a guitar riff, leaving the sudden thunder of boots and voices to fill the gap, and somewhere near the bar Deek yells, “What? What happened? Why are we yelling?”

I keep my eyes on Victoria. The contraction is still rolling through her, deeper now, her jaw clenched tight enough that I can see the muscles bunching beneath her skin. I move around the island and slide one hand behind her back even though I am not sure whether I am steadying her or myself.

“I’m fine,” she grits out.

“You are not fine!”

“I am handling it.”

“You are leaking on the damn tiles, Vicks.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “Unnecessary.”