Chapter 8 #2
"Oh my god, look at you!" She pulls back, holding Vanna at arm's length.
"You look amazing. You're glowing. Is that a baby bump?
That's definitely a baby bump. I can't wait to throw you a shower.
We're going to have so much fun planning the nursery.
Do you know if it's a boy or a girl yet?
It's too early, isn't it? That's okay, we can do a gender-neutral theme—"
"Tildie." Ruger's voice is fond but firm. "Let the woman breathe."
"Sorry, sorry." Tildie releases her but doesn't stop smiling. "I'm just so happy you're here. We have so much to talk about. I want to hear everything about the facility, and the baby, and your plans for the nursery—oh, have you thought about names yet? I have a whole list of suggestions—"
"Tildie."
"Right. Breathing. Got it." She squeezes Vanna's hands one more time before stepping back. "Later. We'll talk later."
Coin steps up next, quieter than the others.
He's got his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, his expression thoughtful.
Single dad, raising two girls on his own—he knows something about hard roads and second chances.
"Good to have you back," he says, offering his hand. "If you ever need anything—someone to talk to, whatever—I'm around. My girls are always asking about the baby, by the way. Wrenleigh wants to babysit."
"She's fifteen," I point out.
"Sixteen in a few weeks. And she's good with kids." Coin shrugs. "Just saying. The offer's there in case the two of you need a date night or anything."
"Thank you, Coin." Vanna manages a smile. "Tell your girls I said hi."
Maddox doesn't say anything—he never does—but he steps forward and wraps Vanna in a gentle hug that seems impossible from a man his size.
When he pulls back, he just nods at her, his eyes soft.
Ounce is next.
He studies her for a long moment, his gaze sharp and knowing.
Then something shifts in his expression—recognition, maybe. Understanding.
"One day at a time," he says. "You know where to find me if you need to talk."
"Thank you." Vanna holds his gaze. "Garrett told me you... that you understand."
"I do." He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't need to. "We'll talk when you're ready."
Kinsey catches Vanna's eye from her spot near the door.
She doesn't move, doesn't speak, but she nods—a small gesture of solidarity from one woman who knows about guilt and second chances.
She's been where Vanna is.
Trying to make amends for things she can't undo.
Hoping people will give her a chance to be different.
And then there's Venus.
She hasn't moved from her spot against the wall.
Her arms are crossed, her expression flat, and she's staring at Vanna with the kind of cold assessment that makes my shoulders tense.
Vanna notices. Of course she does.
"Who's that?" she asks quietly, her eyes flicking to Venus and back to me.
I don't lie to her.
We promised—no more secrets.
"That's Venus. She's... we need to talk about her."
Vanna's jaw tightens, but she nods. "Okay."
I steer her inside, past the group of well-wishers, past the common room where more brothers are waiting with drinks and congratulations.
We'll deal with all that later.
Right now, I need to get her somewhere private, somewhere I can explain.
Our room is at the end of the hall.
I push open the door and let her walk in first.
She stops just inside the doorway, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
Tildie outdid herself.
The new curtains are a soft blue, the bed made up with fresh white sheets and a thick comforter.
The rocking chair sits in the corner by the window, a hand-knitted blanket draped over the back.
And on the dresser, carefully arranged, are all the things Vanna left behind—photos, jewelry, a worn copy of her favorite book.
"You kept everything," she whispers.
"I told you I did."
"I know, but—" Her voice breaks. "I thought you'd throw it all away. I thought you'd give up on me."
I close the door behind us and cross the room to stand behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist.
"Never," I say against her hair. "I could never give up on you, Van. You want to know why?"
She turns in my arms, looking up at me with wet eyes. "Why?"
This is the moment.
The one I've been avoiding for twenty-two years.
The secret I've never told anyone, not even Ruger.
But she deserves to know.
She deserves to understand why I am the way I am.
"Sit down," I say. "I need to tell you something."
We settle on the edge of the bed, her hand in mine.
I stare at our intertwined fingers for a long moment, trying to find the words. "You know my parents died in a fire when I was a kid."
She nods. "You were nine. You and Leah survived."
"Yeah." I swallow hard. "What I never told you—what I never told anyone—is how we survived."
She waits, patient, giving me space.
"The fire started in the middle of the night. I woke up to smoke, couldn't breathe, couldn't see. I managed to get out of my room, and I found Leah in the hallway. She was four years old, crying, terrified. I grabbed her and headed for the stairs."
The memories are coming now, unbidden.
The heat.
The roar of the flames.
The way the smoke burned my lungs.
"My parents' room was on the other side of the house and up the stairs.
I could hear my mom screaming for us, hear my dad trying to get to us.
But the fire was between us. The whole hallway was engulfed.
" I close my eyes. "I had a choice, Van.
I could try to get to them, or I could get Leah out. I couldn't do both."
Her hand tightens on mine.
"I chose Leah." My voice cracks. "I carried her out of that house while my parents burned. A beam fell on her—that's how she got the scar. But she lived. We both lived."
"Garrett..."
"I was nine years old, and I had to choose who lived and who died.
And I chose my baby sister." I finally look at her, letting her see the tears I've been holding back for twenty years.
"That's why I can't give up on people, Van.
That's why I couldn't give up on you. Because I already failed once.
I already lost people I loved. And I swore I would never let that happen again. "
"You didn't fail." Her voice is fierce, her hands coming up to cup my face. "You were a child. You saved your sister's life."
"And I let my parents die."
"No. The fire let your parents die. You did everything you could." She presses her forehead to mine. "You were nine years old, Garrett. Nine. You made an impossible choice, and you saved a life. That's not failure. That's heroism."
I can't speak.
Can't do anything but hold her, letting the tears fall for the first time in years.
She holds me back, her hands in my hair, her body pressed against mine.
"Thank you for telling me," she whispers. "Thank you for trusting me with that."
"You deserve to know. You deserve to understand why I'm so—"
"Protective? Stubborn? Incapable of letting go?" She laughs softly. "I love those things about you. Even when they drive me crazy."
We sit there for a long moment, wrapped up in each other.
Then she pulls back, wiping her eyes. "Now. Tell me about Venus."
Right. Venus.
"We hooked up while you were gone. During the separation." I don't sugarcoat it, don't try to make it sound better than it was. "It was just physical. She knew that—I made it clear from the start. You were still my wife. I was just... lonely."
"For the past few years?"
"Off and on. It ended when I decided to give us another real shot. When I found the rehab facility and started making plans." I meet her eyes. "The night before I took you to Pennsylvania, I told her it was over. That you were coming back, and there was no room for her in my life anymore."
Vanna is quiet, processing.
I can see the emotions playing across her face—hurt, jealousy, understanding.
"She's not happy about it," she finally says.
"No. But she knows where she stands. Ruger made it clear—ol’ ladies come first. Always."
"And I'm your ol’ lady."
"You've always been my ol’ lady. Even when you weren't here."
She nods slowly. "Okay. I can deal with that." A small smile tugs at her lips. "Might have to mark my territory a little, though."
"Yeah?" I pull her closer, my hands sliding to her hips. "How do you plan to do that?"
"I have some ideas."
She kisses me, soft and sweet at first, then deeper.
Her fingers find the buttons of my flannel shirt, working them open one by one.
"Van." I pull back just enough to look at her. "We don't have to—"
"I want to." Her eyes are dark, certain. "I've been waiting twelve weeks to touch my husband. I don't want to wait anymore."
I search her face for any sign of hesitation, any hint that she's not ready.
But all I see is desire.
Desire and love and the fierce determination that's carried her through the last three months.
"Okay," I say. "But we're doing this my way. Slow. Gentle."
"Gentle," she agrees. "We've got all the time in the world."
I stand, pulling her up with me.
I toss my cut on my desk and my shirt hits the floor, and then I'm reaching for the hem of her sweater, easing it up and over her head.
She's wearing a simple cotton bra underneath, nothing fancy, but the sight of her—the new fullness of her breasts, the soft swell of her belly where our baby is growing—takes my breath away.
"Beautiful," I murmur, tracing my fingers along her collarbone. "You're so fucking beautiful."
"I don't feel beautiful. I feel—"
"Beautiful," I repeat, cutting her off. "That's what you feel. Because that's what you are."
I kiss her again, walking her backward toward the bed.
We fall onto the mattress together, a tangle of limbs and whispered words.
I take my time with her, relearning every inch of her body—the places that make her gasp, the spots that make her melt.
She's different from before.
Softer. Fuller. Healthier.
The sharp edges of addiction have been smoothed away, leaving behind the woman I fell in love with all those years ago.
I trace my lips down her throat, across her collarbone, lower.
My hands map the new curves of her body, the swell of her belly where our baby is growing.
"You're staring," she whispers.
"Can't help it." I press a kiss to her stomach, just below her navel. "You're carrying my kid in there. That's... that's everything, Van."
She threads her fingers through my hair, holding me there. "I still can't believe it's real sometimes. That we made something good out of all that chaos."
"We did." I move back up her body, settling between her thighs. "And we're going to keep making good things. Together."
When I finally sink into her, it feels better than I remember.
She gasps, her back arching, her nails digging into my shoulders.
I hold still for a moment, letting her adjust, letting myself feel the reality of this.
My wife. My baby. My future.
All of it right here, wrapped around me.
"I love you," I say against her lips. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
"I love you too." Her voice breaks on the words. "I'm so sorry for everything. For all the years I—"
"Shh." I kiss the tears from her cheeks. "Clean slate, remember? We start fresh. Right here. Right now."
She nods, pulling me closer, and we lose ourselves in each other. It's slow and gentle, just like I promised.
We have all the time in the world now.
No more rushed goodbyes, no more desperate last chances.
Just this. Just us.
When we finally come apart, gasping and trembling, I pull her tight against my chest and don't let go.
Later, we lie tangled together in the new sheets, her head on my chest and my hand tracing lazy patterns on her back.
The snow is falling harder now, piling up on the windowsill, but the room is warm.
Safe.
The sounds of the clubhouse filter through the walls—laughter, music, the low rumble of conversation—but they feel distant.
Unimportant.
Right now, the only thing that matters is the woman in my arms.
"I'm scared," she admits quietly. "About tomorrow. About all the tomorrows after that."
"I know. Me too."
"What if I mess up? What if I relapse? What if—"
"Then we deal with it. Together." I press a kiss to the top of her head. "One day at a time, Van. That's all we can do. That's all anyone can do."
She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me.
Her hair is mussed, her cheeks flushed, her eyes still a little red from crying.
She's never looked more beautiful. "You really believe that? That we can make this work?"
"I believe in you." I reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've always believed in you. Even when you couldn't believe in yourself."
She's quiet for a moment, processing that.
Then she lays her head back on my chest, her arm wrapped tight around my waist.
"One day at a time," she says.
"One day at a time."
Outside, the snow keeps falling, blanketing the compound in white.
Inside, my wife is in my arms, our baby growing between us, and for the first time in years, the future doesn't feel like something to fear.
It feels like something to fight for.