Chapter 26
Texas sat stretched out in the recliner, the baby cradled against his chest. The TV glowed softly on mute, casting faint light across the dim hospital room. The only sounds were the steady blips and hums from the monitors keeping tabs on Sunday’s vitals.
She’d stirred earlier, barely awake, groggy from the surgery and whispered his name before drifting off again. The doctor had reassured him that some people took longer to come out of anesthesia. Still, it unsettled him. He didn’t like not knowing when she’d wake fully. He needed her to be okay.
He’d told his family to go home, promised to call them the next day when Sunday was ready for visitors. Right now, he didn’t want the crowd. Didn’t want the questions or the hovering or the eager arms reaching for the baby. This was their time—just the three of them.
When the nurse came in and gently offered to take the baby to the nursery, he shook his head without hesitation. No way. He wasn’t about to let Sunday wake up and find their son gone. She needed to see him. Needed to know he was here, safe.
Now, with his eyes closed and his head resting back, Texas breathed in the newborn scent of his son. He kept the baby swaddled tight to his chest, one hand splayed protectively over the little bundle as they both slept, waiting for Sunday to wake up.
Sunday came awake slowly, her mind foggy as she tried to piece together where she was. Then it hit her, the hospital, the baby, the surgery. Her hands flew to her stomach. It felt flat. Smaller.
Panic surged as she tried to sit up, her breath catching. Again, her hands pressed against her abdomen, searching for reassurance that wasn’t there.
“Texas?” she rasped.
At the sound of his name, he opened his eyes and saw her watching him, fear written across her face.
“Hey, sweetheart,” his voice was gentle, steady.
He stood and crossed the short distance to her bed. “Shhh, everything’s fine,” he said softly, shifting the bundled newborn in his arms. “Look, he’s fine.”
“He?” her voice cracked, eyes locked on the tiny bundle. “We have a baby boy?”
Texas smiled, emotion catching in his throat. “We do. You did so good, Sunday. He’s perfect.”
She stared at the baby in his arms—their baby. They hadn’t found out the gender during the pregnancy, wanting to be surprised.
It was worth the wait.
“Would you like to hold our son?” Texas asked, his voice thick with love as he moved closer to the bed.
“Yes, please,” she whispered.
Texas grabbed the remote and adjusted the bed slowly, raising her up so she could sit comfortably. Then he hit the call button to alert the nurses that Sunday was awake—finally.
Carefully, he leaned in and placed their son in her arms, one hand steadying the baby while the other supported Sunday’s elbow. He hovered, just in case she needed help.
“Can you place a pillow under my arm, please?” she asked softly, her gaze locked on their son.
“Yep, I can do that,” he murmured, grabbing one from the nearby chair and tucking it gently beneath her arm.
Then he just stood there, staring.
He felt like an idiot, rooted in place, but he couldn’t help it. He hadn’t been able to stop looking at their son since the nurse had first handed him over. Every little breath, every tiny movement felt like magic.
Sunday shifted the blanket, peeling it back just enough to get a better look.
“He’s beautiful, Texas,” she said, voice thick with wonder.
His heart ached at the sight of her holding their child. It was real now—all of it.
Texas gently adjusted her arm on the pillow, making sure she was comfortable as she cradled their son. He listened as she spoke, his heart full.
Smiling, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Yes, he is,” he murmured. “The doctors said he’s perfect.”
Sunday nodded, but the weight of reality began to creep in around the edges of their peace. She didn’t want to shatter the moment, not with their son in her arms and Texas right beside her, but she needed to know.
Her voice was quiet, hesitant, “Did the police…”
Texas’s expression changed, soft warmth giving way to something more serious protectiveness. He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“He’s in jail,” was all Texas said.
His tone left no room for questions. He didn’t want to talk about what had happened—not tonight. The cops would come eventually, would want to hear her version of the story. But for now, all Texas wanted was this; her, safe and awake, and their son sleeping soundly in her arms.
Sunday heard it in his voice—the line he’d drawn, so she didn’t push. Instead, she shifted the moment. “Has your family seen the baby yet?”
He nodded. “For a minute. But no one’s held him except me.”
She looked up at him, surprised.
“I wanted you to be the first,” Texas added softly. “You should be the first.”
Her throat tightened as she looked back down at their son. The weight of everything—what they’d survived, what they now held—settled in.
“Thank you,” she whispered, holding their child just a little closer.
His family had tried everything. Do you need us to hold him? Want us to help? Want us to take him for a bit? All in an effort to pry the baby from his arms. They’d hovered, asked, hinted, even flat-out reached for the little bundle, but Texas hadn’t budged.
Not once.
The one question that came up the most, though, was the baby’s name. What are you calling him? Have you picked yet?Don’t you want to decide before the paperwork’s due?
But Texas had waited. He wasn’t choosing without Sunday.
They’d narrowed it down—two names each for a boy or girl—but they’d left the final call until after the birth.
Now, leaning over the bed so he could get a better look at the baby nestled in Sunday’s arms, Texas asked gently, “What are we calling our little man?”
Sunday kissed the baby’s head, breathing in the warm, sweet scent of newborn skin. Her heart felt like it might burst.
“Let’s use both,” she said softly. “The two we picked for a boy. I can’t choose between them.”
Texas smiled, reaching down to brush a finger over the baby’s cheek. “Both it is.”
Texas liked that idea. “Which one will be his first name?” he asked, smiling, curious which way she’d lean.
Sunday didn’t hesitate. She looked down at their son, her fingers brushing over his blanket. “August Rhys,” she said softly.
Texas nodded, the name settling in his chest like something sacred. “August Rhys,” he repeated, like it already belonged to the boy in her arms. And it did.
Just then, the door eased open, drawing his attention.
A nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand and a kind smile on her face. “Miss Mornin, it’s nice to see you awake,” she said warmly, walking toward the bed.
Sunday gave a small, tired smile in return.
The nurse looked to the baby nestled in her arms. “Have you tried nursing this little fellow yet?” she asked gently.
“Not yet,” she said, adjusting her hold on August.
“Has he not eaten?” Sunday looked from the nurse to August, then up at Texas, her worry creeping in. How long had she been asleep? How long had her baby gone without her?
She remembered the orchard. The apples. After that… nothing.
“I … I don’t know if he’s hungry,” she said quietly, guilt threading through her voice.
“Oh, he’s had a bottle,” the nurse said with a reassuring smile, giving Texas a gentle pat on the arm. “Dad fed him like a pro.”
Sunday’s shoulders sagged with relief, but it didn’t stop the sting of disappointment rising in her chest. I missed his first feeding.
She looked down at August, sleeping peacefully in her arms, and blinked hard against the sudden burn behind her eyes. Her son had been hungry, and she hadn’t been there. She knew it wasn’t her fault, she’d just come out of surgery, but it felt like a failure.
All those baby books. All the late-night research. She’d watched more nursing videos than she could count, but now that the moment was here, she still felt lost.
She glanced back at the nurse, her voice small, “I don’t… really know what I’m supposed to do.”
The nurse’s expression softened. “You don’t have to know everything right now.”
Texas moved closer again, brushing a hand down her hair. “You’re doing great, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “He’s safe. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
Sunday nodded, still unsure but grateful. Maybe she didn’t know exactly what to do yet. But she wasn’t alone.
The nurse checked Sunday’s vitals on the monitor, then glanced down at August with a soft smile—babies always had a way of brightening her day. She gave Texas a reassuring pat on the arm and looked warmly at Sunday.
“I’ll have the lactation nurse come right in and help you,” she said gently.
“Thank you,” Sunday breathed, relief flooding through her. The nurse knew exactly what she was thinking—how lost she felt, how much she wanted to do this right.
As the nurse opened the door to leave, she added, “The cafeteria’s closed, but if you’re hungry, I might be able to find something for you.”
Texas’s jaw tightened just slightly. He knew his mom was already itching to be here, fussing over Sunday and the baby. He gave a quick nod. “Is she on a special diet? Anything Sunday shouldn’t eat?”
“I would avoid anything spicy or anything that could cause gas,” the nurse advised gently. “Both aren’t good for Miss Mornin or the baby. Speaking of that precious bundle, have you picked a name yet?”
“August Rhys,” Sunday answered softly.
The nurse smiled. “What an interesting name. I like it.”
Once the door closed behind her, Texas looked over at Sunday cradling their son. Suddenly overwhelmed, he sank back down into the chair beside her. To keep his mind from slipping back to the orchard—the chaos and fear—he reached out, searching for a way to steady himself.
“Hey,” he said quietly, voice thick. “Do you want something to eat? Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you.”
Sunday met his eyes, her own tired but grateful. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Texas squeezed her hand gently. For now, that was enough.
“Whatever Mom has cooked will be great,” Sunday said softly, glancing at Texas, hoping it was okay she’d called his mother “Mom.”
What she got in response was a wide-ass grin.
“Should I call her Grandma?” she asked hesitantly.
Texas chuckled. “Sorry, sweetheart. The older grandkids already chose Mom’s grandma name—it's mémère.”
“I like that,” Sunday said, a smile tugging at her lips.
Texas felt a calm settle over him for the first time in hours.
She was okay.
The baby was okay.
They were okay.
Reaching for his phone, he dialed his parents, asking if they could bring dinner up to the hospital. When his dad answered, Texas heard laughter and what sounded like a party in the background.
“Dad, what’s going on there?” Texas asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Some of your friends are here,” Pierre said, tapping his beer bottle against a large man’s. “We’re celebrating the birth of your son.”
Texas blinked, confused. The only friends his parents really knew were Kennedy and Cree. “What friends?”
“Well, let me see if I have the names right,” Pierre began, trying to recall. “Seller. Tricious. Slayer. Toker. Cremlock. Oh, and Tuck.”
Texas groaned inwardly. Do you mean Teller, Vicious, Player, Joker, Hemlock, and Truck? He fought the urge to correct his dad out loud. “Please be joking.”
The last thing he needed was his club brothers inadvertently outing his biker lifestyle to his folks.
Did his parents even know he rode with them? Sort of. They thought it was a riding club—not an outlaw MC. Texas ran a hand over his face. This was going to be interesting.
“Maybe,” Pierre said with a shrug. “I’m not too worried about them. Now, the pretty ladies with them—well, I got their names right. Sway and Charlie.”
Texas cringed at the mispronunciations. “Dad? Is anyone else there I should know about?” he asked cautiously.
“Kennedy, Cree, and another Indian named Etos,” Pierre answered casually.
Texas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Eros, Dad. Eros. And, uh, we don’t say ‘Indian.’”
There was a pause, then a chuckle. “Sorry, Nakota,” Pierre said, correcting himself.
Texas couldn’t help but smile. Despite the chaos and confusion, this was family. Texas stared at Sunday, shaking his head in disbelief. Covering the phone, he whispered, “My parents are having a little celebration with our friends.”
Sunday laughed softly. The image of his dad already hammered, surrounded by a row of roaring Harleys parked in the front yard, was too much.
Texas could just picture the neighbors driving by, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, and wondering how it all started.
“Hang on, Texas,” Pierre’s voice came through, chuckling. “Your mom wants to talk to you. You’re in so much trouble.”
Texas braced himself as the phone was handed off. He could only imagine what the Royal Bastards had been telling his family. The bigger question was: who brought them to his parents’ doorstep? And why?
“Ange,” his mom said, her voice laced with humor as she spoke his name.
“Yes, Mom,” Texas replied.
“You should have told us about your little friends.”
There wasn’t anything “little” about the Bastards. Hearing the humor in his mom’s voice, Texas cut to the chase, “Are you drinking?”
“No. Now, your father … he’s drinking with your friends. They’re sweet boys. The ladies are delightful and in the kitchen with me. How’s Sunday and the baby?”
“She and August are doing great.”
“Aww, I love the name.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Before Texas could say more, he heard his mom bustling around the kitchen, directing the ladies like a general.
“Mom, I’ll call tomorrow,” he tried to say.
“No, wait. Tell me why you called.”
“Sunday just woke up, and she’s hungry.”
“Say no more. We’ll see you soon.”
Texas tried to stop her, but the line went dead. “I think we’re about to have company,” he told Sunday.
She smiled and shrugged, cooing softly to the baby.