Epilogue Sin
It’s too fucking bright in here. White tiles make my shoes squeak with every step. Pastel colors surround me. Racks upon racks of tiny clothes and plush toys.
There’s absolutely no danger in here, and it has me on edge more than when I’m being shot at.
I feel naked without my gun at my hip, although Wren couldn’t convince me to leave my backup at home—concealed as it is. Nor my knives. I’ll be damned if I get taken unawares without a weapon. That’s a recipe for death.
My hands wring the handle of the shopping cart, already half full with bottles and blankets and an oversized pink teddy bear.
Wren turns in the aisle ahead of me, those green eyes flashing brighter than her smile. Pressure expands in my chest. She’s absolutely radiant. Happy. The way she cradles her baby bump in one hand softens my agitation.
Nothing here will hurt her.
I roll my shoulders, working through the tension as I follow her to another rack of baby clothes. She doesn’t shrink at the glower I give her.
Not that I’m upset with her. I’m just out of place. My tattoos feel garish against the soft fabrics.
I wait for her to flick through the hangers, watching her my only solace. Even though I’d rather be behind her, cradling our baby in my arms and losing myself in the feeling of her against my chest.
Her gaze lifts to mine, calculating, before she rounds the rack and grabs my hand. “Leave the cart there. No one’s going to steal it.”
I grunt but allow her to pull me deeper into the sea of baby clothes. She doesn’t let go of my hand as she continues to browse. The way her touch anchors me is always a surprise. I spent so much of my life without any real attachments, other than my brothers at Sanctuary.
But Wren…
She’s a whole new world to me. Something I never knew I needed.
Shifting to stand behind her, she lets me do as I’ve been daydreaming, cupping her belly in my hands and lifting the small weight. Her soft moan is pure pleasure. Relief.
I never thought of how taxing growing a baby is, but moments like this has me sending silent thanks to my mom for it.
Somehow, Wren has changed parts of me I never had any hope for. When she relaxes back into my chest, allowing me to support her…my love for her seems to double. Triple. Quadruple.
Her soft giggle accompanies the way I rock her in place and scent her skin.
She holds up a onesie that says My fingers may be small, but I’ve got Daddy wrapped around them.
I snort a laugh against her neck. “Sounds about right. If she’s anything like her momma.”
Wren turns to plant a chaste kiss on my mouth, and it’s hard not to linger.
The moment is interrupted by Saint and Doc’s raised voices by the cribs. They’ve argued about absolutely everything.
“We need the safest one. No compromise,” Saint says, tone authoritative and broking no argument.
Not that it stops Doc. “Actually, this one has the best pediatric recommendations for spinal alignment.”
My laughter is silent, but it shakes along with Wren’s.
“Those two are going to be a problem for the next three months, aren’t they?” She pulls a little frilly dress from the rack and holds it up.
“If you think they’re going to stop once the baby is born, you’re mistaken, princess.”
She snorts. “I think you’re right. And you’re going to have to give me a new nickname. This little one will become the princess once she’s born, and we both know it.”
I grumble against her ear. “I have room in my life for more than one princess.”
Wren’s smile is worth every trial and tribulation. And we’ve overcome many. This little life in my hands represents our future and the safety I’ve promised her.
After another moment, she slips from my arms and takes my hand, tugging me along to more and more clothes. How many clothes does a baby need?
When she holds up another, all I can do is nod and toss it in the cart with the others. I’ll give her whatever she asks for. And more.
Saint and Doc’s debate is escalating into a playful competitiveness, although I’m sure the staff here doesn’t think so. Not with the way they’re hovering.
If anyone else caused a scene like this, they’d have been handled already, but Saint’s Sanctuary vest seems to be keeping them at bay.
The staff will have to intervene soon with the way they’re testing the crib, using a knee to bounce on it to check for stability, rattling the side that lifts and lowers for easier access, flipping over the mattress to read every word on the label.
For a moment, their voices lower as they seriously discuss the pros and cons of the two cribs they can’t seem to agree on.
“All you have to do is go point at one, and they wouldn’t dare argue with you,” I say.
Her laughter rings so loud, so joyously, that everyone in the store pauses to look at her. “They would. But no, this is way too fun to watch. I thought Judge was the only one with the stones to argue with Saint, but Doc is in his element right now, and I can’t pass up the entertainment.”
After a few quieter minutes, they seem to agree on a crib, but then they move onto strollers.
“You know, we’re going to need an actual car for when the baby arrives, right?” she says softly, and it’s an argument she’s already been having with Saint for a month. With her belly growing day by day, it’s harder to sit her on the back of our bikes to bring her to her checkups.
“Imagining what kind of throwdown that’s going to turn into?”
She nods, humor glittering in her green eyes. I marvel at her beauty and how she’s changed since she arrived at our club in a ruined wedding dress and only armed with her violin.
Saint commandeers a stroller like a weapon.
He pushes it down the aisle, stops short, then shoves it forward again. Hard. The wheels squeal in protest. “Turn radius is garbage. If I have to move fast—”
“You are not evading gunfire with a stroller.” Doc crosses his arms, done with Saint’s behavior.
Saint pivots the handle, testing resistance. “I’m planning for worst-case scenarios.”
Doc rolls his eyes like a sullen teenager fed up with his parents before he crouches to examine the wheel assembly. “The worst-case scenario is a curb. And this one has independent suspension. That’s what you want. A smooth ride, with less vibration.”
Saint leans down, grabs the frame, lifts the entire stroller off the ground a few inches, then drops it.
Plastic cracks.
We all freeze.
Saint straightens slowly. “Okay.”
Doc stares at the dangling wheel. “You just broke a seven-hundred-dollar stroller.”
“It failed,” Saint says evenly.
“It failed because you dropped it.”
“I dropped it a few inches.” Saint frowns down at it. “That’s a stumble. People stumble.”
Doc pinches the bridge of his nose. “People also don’t normally carry infants like battering rams.”
Saint grips the stroller handle, knuckles whitening. “I’ve done this before. I know what it feels like to get it wrong.”
Wren’s fingers tighten in mine as we take in Saint’s posture, stiff and bracing for a blow so devastating that the entire store seems to feel it.
Doc studies him for a long second. Then nods. “Okay. Then let’s do it right.”
And he does what he’s good at, pivoting to the highchairs and away from Saint’s past—one long buried until Wren unearthed it. The wounds are still deep, but she’s slowly healing them. For all of us.
Saint reaches out and grips one of them too, giving it a testing shake.
The chair tilts.
I shake my head. “Saint.”
Too late.
One of the legs snaps clean off, the tray skidding across the floor with a hollow clatter.
The store goes dead silent again. We’ve made one too many scenes.
Saint looks down at the wreckage. Then at Doc. “Unacceptable.”
Doc laughs once—sharp, incredulous. “You are not allowed to assess baby gear anymore.”
A store employee appears like he’s been summoned by chaos itself. “Sir—sir, you can’t—”
Doc turns instantly, a professional smile snapping into place. “Hi. So. Question. What models do you carry that don’t disintegrate under minimal applied force?”
The guy blinks.
Saint crosses his arms. “We need something reinforced. Stable. No weak joints.”
Wren leans into me, whispering, “Are they like this about everything?”
I press a kiss into her hair, watching Saint point at another stroller like it personally wronged him. “Only when they care.”
“You’re supposed to help pick, you know, not just sit back and enjoy the show.” She shares a knowing look with me. They’re amusing her too much for me to go and wreck it.
“Leave them to their chaos.” Besides, this baby is going to grow up in a protective bubble that will be hell to get out of. “We have a mountain of baby clothes to pick out.”
I toss the item in her hand at the soon-to-be overflowing cart and stroke her belly. “Do you think she’ll wear all of this before she grows out of it?”
She leans her shoulder into my chest, her head pillowed on my shoulder. “Probably not.”
The baby kicks against my hand, and I jolt.
My heart breaks, grows bigger, and makes room for the little girl that’s going to be here sooner than I’m prepared for.
But if I know one thing, I’m more than ready to be the monster my daughter will need in life.
If you loved Wren and her outlaw Daddies, you’ll fall hard for Sexting My Daddies — another possessive, praise-filled, Daddy-fueled obsession.
Sexting my bosses was never supposed to happen.
Sexting all three of them?
That was the kind of mistake that ruins lives.
They’re powerful.
Untouchable.
My late father’s closest friends - and the men who sign my paychecks.
One drunk Valentine’s text changes everything.