CHAPTER FOURTEEN #2
“No,” I say quietly, wrapping my arms around her without hesitation. “Thank you. For trusting me.”
“I didn’t think I’d enjoy it,” she admits after a moment. “Not like that.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say simply.
She shifts, already half-asleep. “I know it doesn’t mean I’m fixed. Next time might be different.”
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “There doesn’t have to be a next time until you want one.”
She hums softly, fingers tracing over the tattoo on my chest. Her name.
“Sleep,” I murmur, pulling the covers up around us.
EDEN
I stare up at the ceiling. The sun rose hours ago, pale light spilling through the curtains, and Kade was up around the time the birds began singing. I pretended to be asleep as he slipped out quietly, careful not to wake me.
We had sex.
No.
We made love.
The real kind. The kind I used to think only existed in books or in other people’s lives. The kind built on trust instead of hunger. On patience instead of need.
That was the first time it’s ever been like that for us.
And that realisation is playing on my mind.
We’ve had sex before. Plenty of it. Messy, desperate, passionate, reckless sex. Sex that made me feel wanted. Claimed. Safe in his strength. But never this. Never slow. Never careful. Never with him watching my face instead of my body, waiting for permission I didn’t even know I needed to give.
Last night, he didn’t take anything from me.
He let me choose.
I turn my head on the pillow and stare at the empty space beside me. The faint warmth is still there, like a ghost of him. My body feels different this morning. Not sore. Not shaken, just aware. Grounded, like something inside me has shifted into place.
I didn’t panic.
I didn’t freeze.
I didn’t zone out.
All the things I was worried would happen, didn’t. And when I think about that, my eyes sting. Because for so long, I was convinced that part of me was gone forever. That whatever Liam stole from me had taken my ability to want, to enjoy, to feel safe in my own skin.
But last night proved something else.
Healing isn’t loud. It doesn’t appear suddenly. There are no fireworks or celebrations. Sometimes, it’s just a quiet moment where you realise you weren’t afraid.
And somehow, without saying it out loud, Kade understood that this wasn’t about sex at all.
It was about trust. About being seen. About him choosing to stay exactly where I needed him—no closer, no farther—until I was ready to close the distance myself.
I press a hand to my stomach, feeling the familiar curve beneath my palm. Our baby shifts, a gentle roll, like a reminder.
Maybe this is what moving forward looks like.
Not forgiveness or forgetting. Just choosing, one careful step at a time, to let something good exist alongside the pain.
I inhale deeply, releasing it slowly before swinging my legs over the side of the bed and hauling myself upright. I grab Kade’s shirt from the chair, press the soft cotton to my nose, and breathe him in before tugging it on and padding downstairs.
The low hum of his voice reaches me before the kitchen does.
I push the door open gently and smile at the sight of him—tea towel slung over his shoulder, a pan of bacon in one hand, grippers in the other.
I lean against the doorframe, watching as he piles crispy bacon onto a plate of fresh pancakes.
“What a view,” I say eventually.
His head snaps up, eyes narrowing with amused suspicion.
“Food,” I add, smirking, “Obviously.”
“I was gonna bring this up to bed,” he replies, wiping his hands on the towel.
“Nice idea,” I say, sliding into a chair. “But it’s my last day with Mrs. Wainwright.”
“Last day?” he asks, carrying both plates to the table.
I nod. “Before I have the baby. We agreed no maternity pay.” I take a bite of bacon, the crunch grounding me.
“Mostly because I don’t know if there’ll even be a job there when I’m ready to go back.
And,” I hesitate, “I think she hired me out of kindness more than necessity. I don’t think there was ever a real position. ”
His brow furrows in that familiar way it does when he’s worrying over something he can’t fix with his hands.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asks gently.
“I’ve got enough savings to take a few months with the baby,” I say. “After that, I’ll look for something new.”
He presses his lips together, eyes dropping to his plate.
“Say it,” I tell him softly.
He exhales. “I don’t know how to help without sounding like I’m taking over,” he admits. “This is your choice, I know that.”
“But you’re worried about me going back to work,” I guess. We’d talked about me being a stay-at-home mum when we first talked about trying for a baby.
“The bank account belongs to you as much as it does to me,” he mutters. “You only removed your name, but you’re still entitled to it.”
“Kade,” I say quietly, “you put every penny into that account.”
He nods once. “For our future.” His voice is steady, certain. “And I want to take care of my child, Eden, so it’s there if you need it.”
Then he tucks into his breakfast, as if that’s all there is to say.
I smile to myself. The fact that he still doesn’t push, still gives me space, still respects my boundaries.
It settles something warm and solid in my heart.
The bell in the old clock chimes, and I know without looking that it’s going to hurt more than I expected.
Mrs. Wainwright closes the ledger slowly, like she’s giving me time to brace myself, then looks up at me over the rim of her glasses. Her mouth softens first. That’s always the giveaway.
“So,” she says, folding her hands together, “this is it.”
I swallow. “This is it.”
She stands, walking around the counter with surprising steadiness for a woman who insists she’s ‘ancient’. She stops in front of me and tilts her head, studying me like she always does, like she’s filing me away into memory.
“When you walked into this shop,” she says quietly, “you were broken.”
My chest tightens.
“You didn’t think anyone noticed,” she continues. “But I did. You flinched when people stood too close. You apologised for things that weren’t your fault. You looked like you were waiting for something bad to happen every time the door opened.”
I blink hard.
“And now?” she says, her voice warming. “Now, you laugh. You argue with me. You keep me in line. You don’t look scared all the time anymore.”
I press my lips together, emotion swelling dangerously close to the surface.
“I’ve watched you grow here, Eden,” she adds. “And I’ve watched you soften again since that biker started hanging around.”
I let out a weak laugh. “You always call him that.”
“Well,” she shrugs, “he might not wear that leather thing anymore, but at heart, he’ll always be a biker.”
I glance around the shop, at the shelves, the worn counter, the window where I’ve watched the world go by. “He’s been good,” I admit. “Really good.”
Her eyes sharpen gently. “And?”
I hesitate, then the words spill. “We spent the weekend together.” Her brows lift, but she says nothing, just waits. “It wasn’t . . . rushed,” I say. “Or messy. It was careful. Gentle.” My voice drops. “But now, I don’t know what it means.”
She nods once. “And that scares you.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Because I don’t know how he feels. And I don’t know if sleeping together means we’re back. And I’m terrified to ask in case the answer isn’t what I want.”
Mrs. Wainwright studies me for a long moment.
“Is that what you want?” she asks. “To be back together?”
The answer hits me so hard it almost knocks the air from my lungs. “Yes.” The word is immediate, certain.
Then the rest follows.
“But not like this,” I say slowly. “Not here. Not in this town, where he’s cut himself in half to fit my life.
” My hands curl into fists. “He misses the club. I know he does. I can see it in his eyes sometimes. And I don’t want him to wake up one day and resent me for it. And if I’m honest, I miss it too.”
She nods, satisfied. “Then you already know what you need to ask him.”
My heart starts pounding.
“I do.”
I grab my coat, barely remembering to say goodbye properly as I rush towards the door.
“Eden,” she calls after me, and I turn. “Whatever happens,” she says softly, “you are not the same woman who arrived here months ago. Don’t forget that.”
I nod, my throat tight with emotion, and then I’m gone.
The air outside is sharp, and as I head in the direction of the farm, I can’t stop smiling.
Once I’m out the town, and the farm lane is stretched out in front of me, I pick up my pace. It’s quiet and empty along here, creepy in a way I’d never really noticed before. And then the rain starts, drizzling at first, then the farther I get, the heavier it becomes.
I walk fast, heart racing, mind spinning with everything I need to say to him. Everything I’m scared to hear back.
And I don’t notice it at first. It’s just a strange pressure down below, then a tightening low in my stomach.
I frown, pausing for a second and running my hand over my bump. It’s tight, and I smile. “What are you doing in there?” I ask out loud.
Then, like an answer, warmth gathers between my legs. It’s sudden and unmistakable, like I’ve wet myself.
I stare down at myself, then gather the material of my skirt into my hand so I can feel. Damp. Definitely damp.
No.
No, no, no.
My breath comes in short, panicked bursts as I look down at myself, the warmth spreading and reality crashing in all at once.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. My waters have broken, and I’m on . . . I look around, groaning, a farm lane with no one around.
I reach for my pocket, realising it’s empty. I pat the other.
My phone is gone. And then I picture where I left it, on the shelf behind the counter in the shop. Shit.
The lane stretches endlessly in both directions, my heart hammering as another wave of sensation rolls through me, stronger this time.
I press a hand to my stomach, fear and awe colliding.
“Okay,” I murmur shakily. “Okay.”
Of all the moments for life to change, this is it.
The thought barely has time to land before my body betrays me.
Pain rips through me, sharp and brutal, nothing like the dull ache that’s been nagging at my back since yesterday.
This is different. This isn’t discomfort.
This is my body taking over. My stomach tightens so hard, it steals the air from my lungs, and I double over with a strangled gasp, one hand flying instinctively to my bump.
“Oh . . . god,” I breathe.
The world narrows. The farm lane stretches out in front of me, too long, too empty, hedgerows blurring at the edges as another wave rolls through. It grips me from the inside, squeezing and dragging low, like something is pulling me apart and forcing me forward at the same time.
I straighten slowly, teeth clenched, sweat already breaking across my skin despite the cool air. My heart is hammering so fast, it feels like it’s trying to escape my chest.
Okay.
Okay, Eden.
Think.
I’d had backaches yesterday. Ache, pressure, a few twinges today, but nothing dramatic. Nothing that screamed this is it. Nothing that told me I should have stayed put. Or brought my phone. Or not stormed out the shop like a woman possessed.
Another pain hits before I’ve fully recovered from the last.
I cry out this time, the sound torn from me as my body bends again, hands braced on my thighs. My bump feels impossibly heavy, hard beneath my palms, my skin pulled tight as my stomach contracts.
Panic floods me, hot and immediate.
No phone.
No one around.
No Martha.
No midwife.
Kade.
The name beats through my head in time with my pulse.
He’s less than five minutes away. I know that. I cling to it like a lifeline. If I can just keep moving, just get closer, this will be okay. It has to be.
I force myself upright again, breathing the way Jan taught us. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Slow. Controlled. Even though nothing about this feels controlled.
My legs tremble as I take a step. Then another.
There’s a constant pressure now, low and relentless, like my body is bearing down whether I’m ready or not. I stop, leaning against the fence, forehead pressing into the cold wood as I fight the urge to scream.
“It’s fine,” I whisper, more plea than statement. “Labour takes hours.”
Another contraction crashes through me, and I cry out, my vision spotting as I grip the fence and sob openly now, fear clawing its way up my throat.
All I can think about is Kade and how I haven’t asked the question that’s been burning in my chest for weeks. I haven’t told him that I’m ready. That I want us. That I’m terrified of loving him again, but I do. God, I do.
And now my body is deciding everything for me.
I straighten again, wiping tears from my face with shaking hands, and start walking, slower now, careful, deliberate. Each step sends another jolt through my spine, but I keep going because stopping feels worse.
Because the only thing scarier than this pain . . . is the idea of doing it without him.