Chapter 34 Doc
DOC
Obsession is starting to take hold as I watch Wren. She’s still acting funny. And not because of Grant. That excuse doesn’t fit anymore, no matter how many times I try to make it. Because she was like this before the man tried to take her.
She meets my gaze across the room for a beat before Pixie draws back her attention, leaning in to whisper in her ear. It’s been happening a lot more than usual, and they’re close…
Too close. Guarded in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
Still, something isn’t right.
My pulse ticks faster, a familiar warning I don’t want to listen to.
I can’t keep myself from cataloging her behaviors, her habits. They’re shifting.
I tell myself it’s vigilance. Professional concern. Not fixation.
Pixie swaps Wren’s drink and winks at her. An old-fashioned glass with clear soda. I’m pretty sure she didn’t pour any alcohol in there. It’s not her usual. She prefers wine. And she usually doesn’t drink much. My gaze tracks the glass until Pixie’s body blocks my view—intentional.
But she’s been nursing beers during the day.
Wren’s new morning pallor improves with the drink, and her smile is a little easier. It’s been tight lately. Worried.
Relief shouldn’t come that fast from sugar and carbonation.
Why?
Her brother is working with the feds to take down the Dalton empire. We helped make Grant disappear, made it look like he hopped overseas for a last-minute vacation to get over the loss of his fiancé. By the time the trail goes cold, they won’t be able to tie it back to Robbie or us.
Everything is calmer than it’s been since Wren showed up at our door. Which should mean she’s sleeping. Eating. Healing.
So what is she hiding? Why do I spy guilt in her eyes when her gaze tilts back my way. I can’t see their green as vibrantly across the room, but her hair shines bright against her pale skin. She needs more sun. Her freckles are fading.
Weight loss? Stress? Hormonal shifts? I shove the last thought away before it can settle.
Her hand brushes over her stomach. It’s not the first time. My jaw tightens. Once is nothing. Twice is coincidence. Three times is a pattern.
The changes are stubble, but they’re adding up. Too many data points to ignore.
My medical brain is staking clues. I don’t want to jump to conclusions.
But something is off.
Especially with how Pixie is avoiding me, too, skipping our after lunch poker game. Having Wren serve me. Always finding something to be in the middle of when I approach. It’s never good when it gets like this.
She hasn’t had any episodes in a while. Which should reassure me. Instead, it sharpens the unease.
Secrets rot from the inside out. I’ve seen it kill people faster than bullets.
Sitting back, I silently clock everything until Wren scampers off to the laundry room. I get up, approaching Pixie at the bar.
“Hey.” She stiffens, but she shoots me a glance. I try to keep my voice soft like she’s a spooked patient. “Is Wren okay?”
“She’s fine.” It comes out almost too fast. Too practiced. Pixie’s shoulders hike up a bit, and she focuses on the glass she’s cleaning.
Bullshit.
I narrow my eyes at her, trying to unravel her nervousness.
She swipes her purple hair from her face and skitters away. Off to the storeroom.
I go back to my seat. Sin sits nearby for a while. We’re on the same page. His attention tracks every one of Wren’s exits the same way I do.
Saint brings Wren a light lunch at the end of the bar, standing behind her as Pixie tries to shoo him off. He straightens, glowering down at her until she backs off. That’s some gumption, trying to order the bossman around.
Even if he’s hovering too much. He can’t see what I see.
Saint whispers into Wren’s ear, and she looks up at him with a soft smile.
This can’t be so serious. She hasn’t avoided any physical intimacy other than the need to take it easy on her. Wren has been tired.
Exhaustion is a symptom, not a diagnosis.
Saint settles behind her, rubbing her arms and shoulders and dropping kisses in her hair as she nibbles on her food. He watches every bite like it matters. Stays there until he’s satisfied before taking her plate away.
It’s not fifteen minutes before her hand is on her stomach again. A bug?
I approach before she scampers away, and Pixie steps between us.
Okay. This is starting to piss me off.
“Pixie.” I grind her name between my molars. “Move.”
“Oh. Is that how you talk to me now?” Pixie plants her hands on her hips, glaring up at me. There’s no malice in it, even though she’s trying to fake it.
The move gives Wren enough time to slip away.
My hands curl into fists as frustration swells into anger. Wren is hiding something, and Pixie is helping her. When I narrow it on Pixie, she flinches before she thrusts her chin out.
I’m going to figure this out. There’s no more reason to keep secrets.
“Go back to work,” I say, the effort to keep my voice even must show because her eyes flash at me.
“Don’t tell me what to do. I’m no sweetbutt. I’m a member. Don’t you forget it.” Her nostrils flare, and it takes a beat before she pivots on the spot and storms toward the back.
I give it a few seconds before I follow, cornering her in the back hallway. Wren isn’t in the laundry room where she’s taken to hiding. Not in the storage room, so it’s easy to trap Pixie there when she takes the detour. I don’t bother closing the door.
No need. She’s not running anymore.
She jumps when she sees me, a small flash of panic crosses her features. Her mouth opens—like she’s about to say something—and then snaps shut.
I lower my tone, trying to stem the anger. To remain clinical. “Pix, I need the truth. Something is going on with Wren, and if you know what it is, you need to tell me.”
She backs up, crossing her arms. Her chin is up again with her refusal to talk.
I bite back my reactions and force myself to soften. “I’m not her enemy. I’m her doctor. Her family. Tell me what you know.”
She presses her mouth into a firm line.
The tension in the room changes as Pixie’s eyes widen at something over my shoulder. She stiffens at the shadow in the doorway behind me. Her breath hitches. A crate shifts behind her heel with a hollow thud.
It’s Sin, his silent fuming like a wave rolling through the storeroom.
Her eyes dart around. There’s not another exit here other than the one Sin is standing in. She’s fully trapped. This is no longer a simple conversation.
Heavy footsteps sound in the hallway, and Saint’s overpowering presence is the final nail in the coffin. He steps around Sin to my side, towering over Pixie in a way that I can’t.
He’s in charge. He’s powerful. And he’s smarter than the rest of us. It’s why he’s the boss.
Pixie trembles slightly as she looks up at him, meeting his eyes with respect but determination.
Saint’s muscles bulge with restraint as he cocks his head to the side. “Pix, tell me what’s wrong with my wife.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.
“There’s nothing wrong with your wife. If you’re concerned, you should really ask her.”
Saint shakes his head. Sin curls his lip in a silent snarl. Fire burns in my chest at the deflection.
“Every time I try, you get between us, divert, distract.” It’s getting harder to keep my anger in check. It stems from worry, but it’s still not safe.
“Heaven forbid any of you give her a moment to breathe. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be a woman in a club full of alpha men.” Her narrow eyes soften.
The words hit deeper than I expect. Guilt flickers before I can stifle it.
Are we smothering her? That wasn’t a problem before. Has she changed her mind about us now that Grant is no longer a threat? Or did something change inside her instead?
Sin practically growls, and Pixie realizes her mistake.
“That’s not—” She shakes her head. “She loves you guys. That’s not what I meant.”
But fear compounds the worry we’re already swimming in.
Tremors take over Pixie’s shoulders as she appeals to Saint again. “You trust me. Don’t you?”
Her voice is so small. Weak. It’s been years since I’ve heard her like that, but it strikes me differently. Pixie is not a timid woman. She can throw down with the best of them.
When the silence spreads, she pulls in a shaky breath, but her mouth clamps again. Defiant. She’s always been that.
I deliver Pixie a final warning. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll assume the worst-case scenario medically.”
My mind is already sprinting through possibilities I don’t want to name.
Pixie crumbles a little but still holds out. Wren should be proud that she’s got such a good friend, but her devotion is to the club as a whole? Not good. It can’t just be Wren. This kind of divide is what breaks trust. Gets people killed.
“What’s going on?” Wren’s voice has us turning. She pushes past Sin, swatting at his hands as he wraps an arm around her middle. It takes one strong “no” for him to let go of her. Hurt is clear in the flash of his eyes.
Wren presses herself between Saint, me, and Pixie, holding her hands out to get us to step back. “Leave her alone…”
Her sentence trails off halfway through a breath. She tries to shove me back, but it’s weak. Her eyes unfocus and her head tilts as if she’s dizzy. Breath comes a little too rapidly as sweat beads on her forehead and upper lip.
Wren sways, arms still out to keep us at bay. Protecting her friend from us as if we’d ever hurt one of our own. Not like this.
Her eyelids flutter, and I have just enough time to catch her under the elbows as she wobbles.
Tachycardia. Pallor. Diaphoresis.
Wren still tries to push me away, but Pixie is scrambling to keep her up.
We settle her on the floor, tipped against my chest for support, and I feel her pulse—rapid, unstable.
“Fuck,” Sin curses behind me.
Saint goes white as a sheet. Something breaks in his eyes.
And Pixie is crying now. Her voice barely makes it past the ringing in my ears as it cracks. “It’s not anything bad. She’s just—she’s—”
“Spit it out,” Saint snaps.
Pixie sobs, sucking in a few hard breaths before the words burst out of her. “She’s pregnant!”
I go still, putting together all the clues. It’d been circling my thoughts, but I never solidly landed on this conclusion. Medically, I know it’s possible so soon, but I didn’t imagine.
“What?” Saint asks. The shock on his face is as clear as the feeling echoing in my chest.
A future I didn’t plan for—but will die to protect—slams into me all at once.
Sin’s fists unclench and clench again. “You better not be fucking with us, Pix.”
Pixie’s pale face is a mess of tears. “I’m not. I swear. She’s been trying to figure out how to tell you.”
I look down at Wren, unconscious against my chest. My fingers filter through her hair, and the tightness in my chest doubles.
Pregnant?
This changes everything. Every threat just multiplied. Every line we wouldn’t cross just moved.
She’s carrying the future. And god help anyone who tries to take it from her.