Page 48 of Priest

“For the record,” he adds, smoothing a hand down his scrub top, “I would have made a fantastic fake baby daddy if you had prepped me.”

“You absolutely would not have.”

“I would have bought tiny velvet loafers.”

“You would have made my newborn look like a retired lounge singer.”

“A fabulous retired lounge singer,” he says. “Show some respect.”

I look down at my belly, one hand settling there instinctively. The humor fades around the edges, leaving the weight of Priest’s words behind.

I claimed you tonight.

My stomach twists. A few hours ago, I was something that warmed his bed. Now, apparently, I am his Old Lady in front of an entire motorcycle club.

“Welcome to the circus,” I murmur.

Evan slips his arm through mine, quieter now but still Evan. “For what it’s worth, the circus is dangerously hot, and unfortunately, he appears to be the main attraction.”

I huff a tired laugh and let him steer me toward the parking lot. Somewhere deep down, in a place I refuse to linger too long, I know this is not over.

Not even close.

16

Blue

By the time I get home, my scrubs feel like a second skin I can’t peel off fast enough.

The apartment is quiet in that deep, end-of-day way, no hum of traffic, no voices bleeding through walls, just the low thrum of my refrigerator and the faint tick of the clock above the stove. I drop my bag by the door, kick my shoes off without lining them up, and stand there for a moment with my forehead resting against the wood like maybe the door can absorb some of what today dumped into me.

“Okay,” I murmur to myself. “Okay. Operation unpack today’s chaos. First step, shower.”

I let the water run hot, hotter than necessary, until steam fogs the mirror and the smell of hospital antiseptic finally gives way to soap and eucalyptus. I stand under the spray longer than I should, one hand braced against the tile, the other sliding automatically over my stomach, grounding, checking in, reminding myself that at least one thing in my body is steady and uncomplicated.

When I change, it’s into soft leggings and a sweatshirt I took from Priest, a faded Special Forces insignia cracked across the chest, never asked for, never gave back, fitting like armor in a frustratingly comforting way. My hair goes into a messy knot. I don’t bother with makeup. The woman who stared Priest down in a hospital hallway today doesn’t need it.

The knock comes fifteen minutes later, and Evan doesn’t wait for me to answer before announcing himself. “If you tell me you’re naked, I’ll respectfully avert my eyes and then immediately judge your towel placement.”

I unlock the door.

He sweeps in carrying a grocery bag and an energy that fills the room, dramatic coat shrug included. “I brought carbs,” he declares. “And wine for people who aren’t growing humans.”

“I hate you,” I say fondly, stepping back to let him in.

“You love me.” He toes his shoes off and immediately peers at me, his expression shifting into nurse assessment before I can dodge it. “Okay but, wow. You look like someone who fought God and won.”

“Decompressing,” I tell him. “We’re not talking about today until Lila gets here.”

He holds his hands up. “Scout’s honor.”

I narrow my eyes. “You were never a Scout.”

“Exactly. Unburdened by lies.”

We start cooking because it gives us something to do with our hands. Evan takes over my tiny kitchen because he’s been there enough times for it to feel like his space too, chopping vegetables with theatrical flair, humming under his breath, occasionally bumping his hip against mine like punctuation. He lasts maybe three minutes before saying, far too casually, “So. Biker President. Hot.”

I point my wooden spoon at him. “Do not.”