Chapter 3 – Lance
Chapter Three
Getting Wet for Killers
Lance
That fucking text.
I stared at my phone for exactly two seconds before shoving it into my jacket pocket.
Hector, trolling me at the worst possible time.
If my brother wanted my attention, he'd get it—just not right now.
Right now, I had a goddaughter being born and a woman I loved who needed support, not whatever mind game Hector was playing.
Several minutes later, the hospital's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Clarissa and I made our way through the elevators up to the maternity ward. I carried Morgan's overnight bag while Clarissa clutched her purse with white knuckles.
"I can't believe this is happening!" Clarissa's voice bubbled with excitement, her eyes bright as we waited for the elevator. "Gwen's having a baby!"
"She's going to be an amazing mother," I said, meaning it.
"I've been reading everything I can about grandparenting - well, step-grandparenting." She laughed softly. "I want to be ready to help however I can." She touched my arm. "I'm so glad you're here for her, Lance."
The elevator arrived, and as we stepped inside, she glanced at me with that familiar perceptive look. "You're awfully quiet, though. Everything okay?"
I managed a smile. "Just thinking about Atticus. Guy's probably losing his mind in there."
"He'll be fine. New fathers always panic a little." She squeezed my hand. "But you know what's waiting for us up there? Joy. Pure joy."
The elevator arrived, and we stepped inside. As the doors closed, I felt that familiar tension between present and past. But tonight wasn't about ghosts.
When we reached the maternity ward, I immediately spotted Pierce near the nurses' station, talking quietly with Gavin and Rowan. They'd positioned themselves with clear sightlines—habits that ran deep.
Pierce caught my eye and approached. "Everything's secure up here. Just trying to get some damn answers. How long can a baby take anyway?”
“No idea.” I narrowed my gaze on him. “All good?”
“Yeah. Just a couple dozen people saw Gwen go into labor. No telling who they told. And the press was already alerted. Let’s just say not everyone is a well-wisher. So, I like to stay ready. Matter of fact, I’m adding you to the security channel now. You’ll get an alert if anything is up.”
“Got it.” What would happen when he realized that I constituted a massive security threat?
I tucked that thought aside and joined Gavin at the chairs. Rowan had taken Clarissa to Gwen’s room.
Micah paced, checking his watch every few minutes. Gavin stared blankly at his phone. Rowan leafed through a magazine without actually reading it. And I sat there, feeling time crawl by, wondering what was happening behind those closed doors. Wondering if Morgan was okay.
"This is taking too long," Micah muttered, dropping into the seat beside me.
"First babies take time," Gavin mumbled. “Or so I was told when it was me waiting.”
Michah nudged me. "Go check on them. Ask Morgan for news."
He really thought he was funny. "Morgan doesn't want me there."
"Morgan doesn't know what she wants." He gave me a look. "Go."
Before I could decide, the doors flew open. Atticus burst into the room, grinning like a man who had just touched heaven.
"She's here! Baby Ava Morgana Price, seven pounds, nine ounces."
And that was it. The world shifted.
We all clamored to be first in Gwen’s suite, eventually piling into the birthing suite, a mess of towering men trying to make ourselves small in a room where the air was thick with exhaustion and joy.
Gwen, looking like a warrior queen, was propped up against the pillows, her eyes soft with something so tender it made my throat ache. And there, in Morgan's arms, wrapped in a tiny pink blanket, was a baby with a shock of jet-black hair and the tiniest, most perfect face.
Morgan was gazing down at her with something I couldn't name, something too raw and real.
She'd changed into scrubs at some point, her cocktail dress discarded, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, her makeup still perfect.
She looked exhausted and beautiful and so fucking perfect it hurt to look at her.
Then, her eyes lifted and met mine.
Something flickered. A moment stretched between us, charged and dangerous.
I forced myself to break the connection before it swallowed me whole.
Morgan relinquished the baby to her father. Atticus came over and handed me his daughter, like he’d done to everyone else and I froze. I didn’t usually do babies.
Ava, as if on cue, made a small snuffling noise, pulling my attention. She blinked open dark, glassy eyes and made another soft, barely-there sound that shot straight into my chest like a goddamn bullet.
She was so small. Warm, soft, fragile in a way that made something deep inside me coil and tighten. I'd never held anything so precious in my life—except maybe Morgan, on those nights when she'd fallen asleep in my arms, trusting me completely.
I handed the baby carefully back to Gwen, and suddenly the quiet filter lifted and the room buzzed with conversation around again as if the spell little Ava held me in was complete.
Atticus recounted the birth, Micah making jokes about how the baby clearly got her looks from Gwen, and Rowan already promised to spoil her rotten.
Clarissa’s main focus was Gwen, mopping her brow and rubbing moisturizer into her arms.
But I searched the room for Morgan. She was attempting to make a break for it and slipped out of the room.
I ran after her and called out, "Wait. You'll need this."
She turned back, surprise flickering across her face when she saw the bag. "You packed for me?"
"Figured you'd be here a while." I handed it to her, our fingers brushing for a split second. "Comfortable clothes, your toothbrush, that face cream you can't sleep without."
She stared down at the bag and blinked rapidly as she took it from me. When her gaze lifted, her eyes were filled with unshed tears, and her lips parted like she was going to say something.
But instead of saying something…she ran like she was Usain Bolt and this was an Olympic trial.
"Really?" I called after her. "You're running now?"
No answer.
Jesus Christ . Was this middle school?
I stalked after her, rounding the corner just in time to see her dart into a dimly lit on-call room.
If she thought a closed door would stop me, she had clearly forgotten who the fuck I was.
I pushed inside.
And then stopped short.
Morgan was facing away from me, her scrubs already halfway down her thighs, her bare legs disappearing into the tiniest black thong I had ever seen in my goddamn life.
"Jesus Christ."
She whirled around, eyes wide. "Fuck! Knock much?"
I should turn around.
I should give her privacy.
I should not be standing here, staring at her like a starving man at a feast.
But my feet weren't listening. All the blood in my body rushed south as I took in the curve of her waist, the way her breasts pushed against the thin fabric of her bra, the smooth expanse of her stomach. Her skin was a deep honey gold, just begging to be tasted, touched, marked.
A month.
A month since I'd touched her, tasted her, had her wrapped around me. A month of cold showers and sleepless nights. A month of remembering the way she'd shattered under my hands, the way she'd whispered my name like a psalm.
"I just wanted to talk," I said, voice tight.
She crossed her arms, cocking a hip, the movement only making things so much worse.
"Talk?" she repeated, voice dripping with disbelief. "You followed me in here to talk?"
"Yes," I ground out. "Believe it or not, I'm capable of that."
Her gaze darkened, lips curving in something that wasn't quite a smirk. "So talk, Lance."
I took a step closer. Then another.
And fuck if the tension in the room didn't shift.
The air between us crackled with a month of unsaid words, unresolved anger, and undeniable hunger. “I miss you.”
“Don’t say that to me,” she snapped, yet a complex emotion flashed in her eyes.
“I know you miss me, too, Morgan.”
A scoff. “Your arrogance has not changed, I see.”
Maybe I was taking the wrong approach. "I know I don’t deserve it, but there are things left unsaid between us," I said, forcing myself to focus despite the way her body called to mine.
"What things, Lance?" Her voice was sharp, defensive. "About how you kept things from me? About how I never really knew you at all?"
I stepped closer, the memory of our last fight hanging between us. "I've given you space. I've respected your decision. But we can't keep doing this. We’re not done, Spitfire. Letting you go isn’t an option."
"You better make it an option," she challenged, eyes flashing. “I also don’t need you to let go, I already walked away.”
I raked my fingers through my hair, frustration and desire snapping through me with too much intensity." Aren’t you done pretending this isn't killing us both?"
She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "You think that's what this is about? That I'm just being stubborn?" Her voice dropped. "You lied to me, Lance. You made me believe I knew all of you."
"I never lied," I countered, moving closer still. "I just?—"
"Withheld," she finished. "Same difference."
I could smell her perfume, that intoxicating mix of lime and coconut that haunted my dreams. "Is it?" I asked, voice low. "Because right now, all I can think about is how much I miss you. And I think you miss me too."
She tilted her chin up, defiance crackling between us like a live wire. "You're a goddamn coward."
That was it.
I closed the distance, trapping her between me and the wall, bracing a hand next to her head.
"You don't get to do this to me," she whispered, voice shaking. Her pupils were blown wide, lips parted like she was already imagining my mouth on hers.
"Do what, spitfire?" I rasped, shifting closer until I could smell her perfume mixed with arousal. "Make you wet just by being in the same room?"