CHAPTER TWELVE #2
My breathing goes from calm and paced to shallow and uneven as his thumb strokes slowly over the back of my hand.
“That’s it, Edes. Perfect,” he murmurs encouragingly near my ear.
His voice is rougher than usual. Lower. And it sends a shiver straight down my spine.
Jesus. What is wrong with me?
I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to inhale deeply, counting in my head like Jan instructed. This isn’t about him. This is about learning to breathe. About the baby. About staying present.
But my body doesn’t get the memo.
Every part of me is hyper-aware of him—his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest behind me, the way his arm curves protectively around my middle without actually touching my bump. Like he’s holding himself back on purpose.
My breathing stutters again.
“Hey,” he whispers instantly, “I’ve got you. Slow it down.”
I nod, though I’m not sure he can see it.
In. Out.
His thumb stills, like he’s realised what it was doing. I feel the absence of the movement more than I felt the touch, and it makes my chest ache in a way I wasn’t expecting.
We breathe together again.
My head tilts back just a fraction, resting against his shoulder, and for a heartbeat, I wonder what it would feel like if he took advantage of the moment. If he just leant forward a little and pressed his lips to mine.
But he doesn’t.
He stays exactly where he is.
And for the first time in months, I feel disappointed.
Jan’s voice floats back into my awareness, guiding the room through another round of breathing, but I barely hear her. All I can think about is how right this feels, and how terrifying that is.
“Okay,” Jan says brightly, clapping her hands once. “I want us to practise something. And if at any point you feel uncomfortable, please don’t force it. I’d like you to feel connected.”
A few nervous laughs ripple around the room.
“So, if it’s okay, turn to your partner and face one another. As close as you like. Then take a few seconds to simply look at each other. No talking. No phones. We forget how to really see one another.”
I inwardly groan as I shuffle around to face him, my knees brushing his.
“This is aimed at Doug,” Kade murmurs mischievously under his breath.
I bite back a smile. Doug, who sits rigid beside his wife, Sarah, every week like he’s waiting for parole. Doug, who hasn’t looked at her once.
I cross my legs, trying to keep this casual. Kade mirrors me without thinking, our movements instinctively in sync. I place my hands on my knees, lift my gaze, and there he is.
Right there.
At first, it’s awkward. Almost funny. A few people around the room giggle nervously, and I’m tempted to join them. We look like teenagers forced into a trust exercise.
But Kade doesn’t laugh.
His gaze is steady. Unflinching. Like he’s been waiting for permission to look at me properly.
And suddenly it isn’t funny at all.
The room fades into a dull hum. The ticking clock. The soft shuffle of bodies. None of it matters. All I can see is him. The tiny crease between his brows. The way his jaw tightens like he’s holding something back. The softness in his eyes that undoes me more than anger ever did.
My chest tightens.
This feels . . . intimate. Too intimate. Like something sacred we’re not meant to touch yet.
I swallow, resisting the urge to look away.
His expression shifts then, barely perceptible but it hits me hard. Regret. Longing. Something raw and unguarded that makes my throat ache.
It feels like we’re standing on the edge of something. One step closer and we fall straight back into each other. One step away and we lose whatever this fragile, careful thing is we’ve built.
My breath catches.
And still, he doesn’t look away.
When we finally step outside, my body is buzzing, alive in a way it hasn’t been for months. Every nerve ending feels switched on, humming with want and need for something I’ve not craved in a long time. I can only blame hormones . . . right?
“I have a surprise,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just knocked my entire equilibrium sideways. “When you asked me out for lunch—”
“Erm,” I interrupt, arching a brow. “Why are you making it sound official?” I tease. “It’s not like it was a date or anything.”
He smirks, slow and familiar. “Relax, Queenie. It’s okay if you wanna date me.”
I snort, laughing despite myself, and for a second, it feels easy. Normal.
Then his gaze shifts over my shoulder. “Diesel’s here.”
I follow his line of sight and spot the bike in the car park.
He nods. “And I thought it’d be nice if you saw Fern.”
I don’t even think, I just move. My arms go around him, my cheek pressing into his chest as relief floods me. “Thank you,” I say, breathless. Then reality kicks in and I quickly step back, suddenly very aware of how close we are.
His hand lingers at the back of my neck, warm and grounding. “I figured you’d like that.”
The second we step inside the bar, I hear her squeal.
Fern barrels towards me, all joy and momentum, and instinctively Kade steps in, his arm coming around me protectively, stopping her just short of my stomach. She freezes, eyes dropping and then widening.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, hands bracketing my bump with reverence. “Look at you. You’re glowing.”
“And you look amazing,” I tell her honestly, taking in her relaxed smile, her easy confidence. I miss my old body for a fleeting second, but not enough to dull this moment.
Kade pulls her into his arms next, kissing the top of her head. “Country life suits you, Pres,” she murmurs, and there’s something soft—almost sad—in her voice.
He smiles down at her. “I ain’t the Pres anymore. That’s your old man’s job.” His gaze shifts to Diesel. “Brother.”
They shake hands then Diesel pulls him into a hug, eyes closing briefly like he’s grounding himself. “It’s good to see you, Kade.”
Then Diesel turns to me, holding me at arm’s length, his grin genuine. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful pregnant woman. Absolutely stunning.”
I feel my cheeks warm. “It’s good to see you, Diesel.”
Something loosens in my chest then. I hadn’t realised how much I’d been carrying—the quiet fear that the club blamed me, that they resented me for taking Kade away. But there’s no judgement in his eyes. Just warmth.
“Come on,” Fern says, looping her arm through mine. “Let’s leave these two to catch up.”
I glance back at Kade once as we walk away. He’s watching me.
I take Fern back to my place, and she falls in love with it instantly.
“This life is perfect,” she breathes, spinning slowly in the living room. “The small town. The cute little house with the country vibe. You’re literally living in a Hallmark movie right now.”
I snort as I fill the kettle at the sink. “Single, pregnant woman living with her little sister,” I say dryly. “Yeah, very romantic.”
She leans against the counter. “Excuse you. There’s a big biker five minutes down the road who is absolutely bat-shit crazy about you.”
I keep my back to her, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard. “How have you been?” I ask, carefully.
“Don’t,” she says, firm. I glance over my shoulder. “Don’t change the subject because you don’t want to talk about it,” she adds.
I sigh. “I don’t have anything to say.”
Her eyes widen. “He’s stepped back from the club, Eden. Not just as President, but everything. He doesn’t pick up the phone when any of us call.”
“You’re here now,” I point out weakly.
“Because he wants something,” she shoots back. “Diesel’s picking up his bike so he can sell it.”
My stomach tightens. “Yeah. Martha mentioned that.”
“He wants to buy a family car. Something safe.” She waits for my reply but I don’t offer one. “You don’t think any of this is a big deal?” she asks, incredulous.
I drop into the chair opposite her with a groan. “Of course, I do. The club is his whole life. But every time I bring it up, he just says it’s his past. That this baby is his future.”
Fern exhales sharply. “We both know that’s code for you’re his future.”
I shake my head. “I’ve made no promises.”
“Eden,” she says softly. “You could keep that man firmly in the friend zone until he’s old and grey, and he’d still stick around.
” She leans forward. “He loves you. He could’ve stayed where he was.
Been a weekend dad. Visited on holidays.
Done the bare minimum.” Her words sink in, heavy and uncomfortable.
“But he didn’t,” she continues. “He uprooted his entire life to become someone else. Just to be good enough for you.”
My chest tightens painfully. “I didn’t ask him to.”
“I know,” she says quickly. “And honestly, after the way he treated you, part of me thinks he deserves to suffer.” She gives a small, helpless shrug. “But no one saw this coming. And now, he’s selling his bike.” Her voice drops. “He means it.”
I stare down at my hands. “The sad part is, I don’t want him to change.”
She goes still. “Have you told him that?”
I shake my head slowly. “How can I?” My voice cracks. “How do I say that without giving him hope I’m not ready to offer?”
We fall silent.
And I realise the problem isn’t whether Kade can change. It’s whether I can live with what those changes might cost him.