Chapter Fourteen
KAIA
The escort to the hospital is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in my life.
Hundreds of motorcycles form a procession around our car, engines roaring like rolling thunder.
NOLA Defiance leads the way, but behind them are patches from across the country—even prospects and hangarounds have joined the convoy, their bikes creating an honor guard that stretches for what feels like miles.
Through the back window, I watch the sea of leather and chrome, and despite the overwhelming pain radiating through my body, I can’t help but be impressed by the loyalty and solidarity being shown.
Hurricane would absolutely love that his children are being born into this world with this much spectacle surrounding them, especially on a day celebrating him.
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe out, gripping Ingrid’s hand as another contraction builds. “He’s probably laughing his ass off up there, watching all this chaos.”
Ingrid squeezes my fingers, her eyes soft with understanding. “You know he is, honey. That man never could do anything quietly.”
Mom sits on my other side, baby Louis balanced on her lap, her free hand stroking my hair. “How are you feeling, Keiki?” she asks in that gentle way that only mothers can manage.
“Like I’m being split in half.” I pant, pressing my palm against my belly as the pain peaks. “But also like… like this is exactly how it’s supposed to happen. Does that make sense?”
Lani turns from the front seat, her face a mixture of excitement and concern. “It makes perfect sense. These babies have been waiting for their daddy’s big day to make their entrance. They want to be part of the celebration.”
Another wave hits, stronger this time, and I double over with a low groan. The pain is different from what I remember with Immy. More intense, more demanding.
These twins aren’t playing around.
“Breathe through it, darling,” Ingrid coaches, her voice steady and sure. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Just like we practiced.”
“When the hell did we practice?” I gasp.
“We didn’t, but I’ve been through enough births to know what works,” she replies with a small smile. “Trust me.”
The prospect driving glances at us in the rearview mirror, his eyes wide with panic. “Should I go faster? I can get us there in five minutes if I—”
“No,” I manage between breaths. “Just… just keep it steady. These babies aren’t coming in the next five minutes.”
I hope.
As we turn the corner toward the emergency, I see the hospital entrance already swarming with bikers. They’re lined up along both sides of the driveway, creating a pathway like we’re some kind of royalty arriving for a state function.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, and this time the tears that fall aren’t from pain. They’re from something deeper, something that swells in my chest and threatens to overwhelm me completely.
Family.
This is what Hurricane meant when he talked about brotherhood. This is the legacy he’s left behind. It’s not just a motorcycle club, but a family that shows up when it matters most.
“Look at them, they all came,” Lani murmurs, her own voice thick with emotion. “They’re all here for you. For Hurricane. For the babies.”
Another contraction hits as we pull up to the entrance, and this one is fierce enough to steal my breath entirely. I grip Ingrid’s hand so tight I’m probably cutting off her circulation, but she doesn’t complain.
“That’s it, darling,” she murmurs. “You’re doing so good. Almost there.”
The car stops, and immediately, Bayou appears at my door, and for a moment, seeing him takes my breath away all over again.
God, they look so similar.
“Hey, Kaia,” he says softly, and his voice is so much like his brother’s that my heart clenches. “Ready to meet these little troublemakers?”
“I don’t think I have a choice,” I reply, managing a weak smile as he helps me out of the car.
A wheelchair appears by my side—someone must have called ahead—and as I lower myself into it, another contraction rolls through me.
This one is so intense that I can’t hold back the sound that escapes, somewhere between a moan and a growl.
“Fuck,” I pant, gripping the armrests. “They’re really doing this. Today. Right now?”
“Looks like Hurricane’s kids are as impatient as their daddy,” City says, appearing beside the wheelchair with that calm, steady presence he has always had as VP.
But as the club’s new president, he’s been the rock keeping the club together since we lost Hurricane, and seeing him here grounds me somehow.
The bikers have formed two lines along the hospital corridor, creating a path to the elevators.
As the wheelchair starts moving, I’m surrounded by faces I know and love.
Grit nods at me with that serious expression he always wears.
Hoodoo gives me a thumbs-up and a grin. Raid looks up from his phone long enough to mouth, You got this, before diving back into whatever tech emergency he’s handling.
South dips his head with that deep understanding of grief that he knows all too well.
And then I see Bayou pushing a stroller with Immy inside, Izzy walking beside them. My three-year-old daughter waves at me with both hands, completely oblivious to the gravity of the situation.
“Mama,” she calls out. “Where are you going?”
“Remember how you asked if the babies are coming today, sweet g-girl,” I call back, my voice breaking slightly as another contraction hits. She nods, a hopeful look crossing her face. “Well, they’re coming right now. You stay with Uncle Bayou, okay?”
She jumps happily in the stroller, clapping her hands together as the nurse continues with me down the hall.
The smiles and cheers of the brothers should ease my nerves, but as the nurse pushes me farther away from my family, away from the brotherhood supporting me, panic sets in.
As we reach the elevator, I’m about ready to jump out of this damn wheelchair.
Because I’m about to do this, give birth to Hurricane’s twins, and he’s not here.
He is never going to hold them.
He is never going to see them take their first breaths.
He is never going to make those terrible dad jokes that would have made them roll their eyes.
“Wait!” I call out suddenly, my voice echoing through the corridor. “Wait, stop!”
The nurse pushing my wheelchair pauses, looking concerned. “Is everything okay? Are you having another contraction?”
“No, I just…” I look back around at all these faces, all these people who loved Hurricane as much as I did, and realize I don’t want to do this alone.
I can’t do this alone.
My eyes find Ingrid, who’s standing back with Louis in her arms. This woman, who became Hurricane’s stepmother, who loved him like her own son, who is grieving just as much as I am.
“Ingrid,” I call out, desperation clear in my tone. “Will you… will you come in with me? Please?”
Her eyes immediately fill with tears, and for a moment, she looks so frail, so vulnerable, but then she nods, handing Louis off to South without a word.
“Of course, darling,” she replies, her voice thick with emotion as she steps off toward me like a mother on a mission. “Of course I will.”
“I’m coming too,” Lani announces, pushing her way through the crowd to match pace with Ingrid. “You’re not doing this without your sister.”
And just like that.
I’m not alone anymore.
The elevator ride to the birthing floor feels both endless and far too short, as though time itself doesn’t know whether to stretch or snap.
Every second is a blur of fluorescent lights and the sterile smell of disinfectant.
Ingrid grips one of my hands, Lani the other, their fingers anchoring me as another contraction rips through my body.
Pain sears white-hot across my abdomen, radiating into my spine, and I bite back a scream, sweat breaking across my forehead.
“You’re incredible,” Lani whispers urgently, leaning close so I can feel her warmth. “Hurricane always said you were the strongest woman he’d ever met, and he was right.”
My chest caves at the sound of his name.
Hurricane.
My husband.
The man I just buried.
And now, here I am bringing his children into the world. The cruelty and beauty of it collide so violently inside me that I can barely breathe.
“He’s here with you,” Ingrid adds, her voice breaking but strong as she squeezes my hand. “I can feel him. He’s giving you strength.”
God, I want to believe her. I need to believe her. Because right now, I’m terrified.
Terrified of doing this without him.
Terrified of facing the future alone.
Terrified of these babies entering the world before I’ve even figured out how to keep myself upright.
The elevator doors slide open, and the sharp, antiseptic scent of the birthing floor slams into me. Dr. Adams is waiting, her calm professionalism like a life raft in the chaos, and my heart stutters. Finally, someone who looks like they have control over this madness.
“Well, Kaia,” she says with a reassuring smile as they wheel me quickly down the hall. “Looks like these little ones decided they couldn’t wait any longer.”
I let out a shaky laugh, my voice cracking with both pain and hysteria.
“They’re definitely Hurricane’s kids. No sense of timing whatsoever.
” Another contraction grips me so hard it steals the air from my lungs, and I have to calm down before I can continue speaking, “But at least they waited until I got to the hospital. Better here than in the damn car like with Immy.”
The women chuckle softly at the memory, but their eyes are glassy, red-rimmed. They know. They feel it too. That Hurricane should be here, pacing the room, cursing the clock, holding my hand through every contraction.
The birthing suite is bigger than I expected, quiet, the hum of machines steady and low. The contrast to the organized chaos of the hospital corridors is jarring. They help me onto the bed, my body heavy, trembling, my legs weak with the strain of hours I hadn’t even realized I’d been in labor.
Dr. Adams examines me, her hands gentle but firm. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with here,” she murmurs. A pause, then her eyebrows shoot up. “Kaia, you’re fully dilated. How long have you been feeling contractions?”
I grimace, heat blooming across my cheeks.
How do I explain that I’ve been too consumed by grief to even register my body tearing itself apart?
“I think… all morning. Maybe before that. But it was my husband’s funeral today.” My throat tightens. “I just needed to get through it.”
Her expression softens, compassion in her eyes. “Oh, Kaia. You’ve been in labor for hours without realizing it. These babies are ready to make their entrance.”
My stomach flips, fear and disbelief tangling. “Now?” The word pitches higher than I intended, trembling on the edge of panic.
“Right now,” she confirms, firm and steady. “This is happening whether we’re ready or not.”
The next contraction builds like a storm, a tidal wave I can’t escape. Ingrid grips one of my hands, Lani the other, their voices cutting through the roar in my head.
“You’re not alone, darling,” Ingrid soothes, her southern lilt wrapping around me like a blanket. “We’ve got you.”
But the truth is, I feel alone.
My husband’s funeral wasn’t even over, and now I’m expected to find the strength to bring his legacy screaming into the world. The weight of it crushes me, threatens to drown me, until I remember who I am doing this for.
Him.
Them.
Us.
The contraction crests, and I gasp. “I need to—”
“Go ahead, Kaia,” Dr. Adams urges. “Listen to your body. Push when you need to.”
What follows is a war inside me. Pain consumes me, like my body is being torn in two. Every muscle strains, sweat soaks my skin, and my breath comes in ragged pants. Yet through the agony, there’s beauty, each push dragging Hurricane’s children closer to life.
“Come on, darling,” Ingrid coaches, her grip strong, her voice fierce. “You’re doing amazing. Hurricane would be so damn proud.”
“Hurricane’s here,” Lani chokes, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I swear I can feel him here with us.”
And maybe it’s exhaustion.
Maybe it’s grief and adrenaline mixing in my veins.
But I feel him too.
A warmth wrapping around me, a presence at my back, urging me to keep going.
My Hurricane.
My anchor.
My storm.
“I can see the head,” Dr. Adams shouts, excitement cutting through the haze. “Keep going, Kaia. One more big push.”
I bear down, pouring every ounce of myself into it. Every moment of love, every fight, every kiss, every laugh I shared with him, I channel it all. A scream rips from my chest, raw and intense, and then suddenly, release.
A piercing wail fills the room, slicing through the grief as if sunlight has broken through storm clouds.
“It’s a boy!” Dr. Adams announces triumphantly, holding up a tiny, perfect, screaming infant. “And he’s got a good set of lungs on him.”
For a heartbeat, the world freezes while I glimpse him, red, wriggling, fierce, as the nurses step in.
“We’ll run the checks,” one says quickly, already lifting him from Dr. Adams’ hands.
My arms ache, a hollow, desperate ache. I want to hold him. To press him to my chest. To claim him. But all I can do is watch as they carry him across the room. His cries echo, sharp and alive, cutting through me like both salvation and torment.
“Lynx,” I whisper, choking on the word. “His name is Lynx.”
Lynx Ladet.
Hurricane’s son.
His heir.
His legacy.
He’s barely minutes old and already I see Hurricane in him, in the stubborn strength of his cry, in the fierce way he announces himself to the world.
But before I can even breathe him in, another contraction seizes me, violent and merciless.
Dr. Adams leans in. “Baby number two is coming fast. Kaia, focus. You need to push.”
“No. Not yet!” My body feels shredded, my heart already torn raw.
I haven’t even held my son.
How can I do this again?
Ingrid grips my hand tight, her eyes blazing with determination. “Yes, you can! You’re stronger than this storm.”
Lani leans down, pressing her forehead briefly against mine, her tears spilling onto my cheek. “Push, Kaia. Hurricane’s here. He won’t let you fall.”
The next contraction crashes through me. I scream, my body straining, vision swimming. Every nerve is fire. Every breath is a war.
And then—release.
Dr. Adams’ voice cuts sharp. “She’s here, your baby girl’s out.”
But a deathly silence follows.
No cry.
The air in the room changes instantly.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
With what little strength I have, I sit up on my elbows and look down at the end of the bed. “Why isn’t she c-crying?” My voice cracks, wild and high, panic clawing through me. “Why the fuck isn’t she crying?”