Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Dalla
I wake up and barely make it to the bathroom before I'm sick.
This is the fourth morning in a row.
Fourth morning of my stomach revolting against me, my body rejecting everything I try to put in it.
I've blamed stress, fear, lack of sleep.
I've blamed the fight with RJ, the situation with Solveig, the constant low-grade terror that's become my new normal.
But as I kneel on the cold tile floor, forehead pressed against the porcelain, a thought surfaces that I've been trying very hard not to think.
I'm late.
Not just a little late.
Over a week late, maybe closer to two.
I do the math in my head, counting backward.
The timeline clicks into place with terrifying precision.
The first time RJ and I were together—in the bathroom, desperate and explosive—that was almost three weeks ago.
We haven't exactly been careful since then.
In fact, we haven't been careful at all.
Every time we've been together, there's been no discussion of protection, no pause for practicality.
Just need and want and now.
No. No, it's just stress.
Stress can mess with your cycle.
That's a thing.
That's definitely a thing.
I learned that in the two years of medical school I actually completed.
The body responds to trauma by shutting down non-essential functions.
Reproduction is non-essential when you're running from predators.
Or from traffickers with revenge fantasies.
I flush the toilet and rinse my mouth, avoiding my reflection in the mirror.
I don't want to see my own face right now.
Don't want to see the fear in my eyes.
Don't want to acknowledge what some deep, instinctive part of me already knows.
It's just stress.
RJ is still asleep when I slip back into the bedroom.
He's been running himself ragged the last few days, coordinating with my father, setting up new security protocols, barely sleeping.
When he does sleep, it's light and restless, his body coiled for action even in unconsciousness.
I watch him for a moment, this man who's turned my life upside down.
His face is softer in sleep, the hard edges smoothed away.
He looks younger, less like a soldier, more like someone who might want a family someday.
Family.
The word echoes through me, heavy with new meaning.
I press a hand to my stomach and feel nothing.
No flutter, no movement, nothing to indicate that there might be something growing inside me.
It's too early for that.
Way too early, if there's even anything there at all.
But I need to know.
I can't keep wondering, can't keep living in this limbo of maybe and what-if.
I need to take a test.
I slip out of the bedroom and head upstairs, moving quietly through the still-sleeping clubhouse.
My bare feet are silent on the stairs, my breathing carefully controlled.
The main bathroom on the second floor is communal—used by horas, old ladies, visitors.
The kind of place where certain supplies accumulate over time.
The cabinet under the sink is a mess of half-empty bottles and forgotten toiletries.
I dig through it, pushing aside expired sunscreen and dried-up nail polish, a tangle of hair ties and a rusty razor.
My fingers close around a familiar box shoved all the way in the back.
Pregnancy test. Single use.
The expiration date on the side reads eight months ago.
Shit.
But expired tests can still work, right?
They just might be less accurate.
A positive might be a false positive.
A negative might be a false negative.
The chemicals degrade over time, making the results unreliable.
Or they might be perfectly accurate.
Only one way to find out.
I lock the bathroom door and sit down on the toilet with shaking hands.
The instructions are simple—pee on the stick, wait three minutes.
I've never actually taken one of these before.
Never had reason to.
In all my years of dating, of relationships that fizzled and hookups that went nowhere, I've never once had a pregnancy scare.
Leave it to RJ Malone to change that.
The three minutes feel like three hours.
I set the test face-down on the counter and wash my hands, avoiding looking at it.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, can hear the blood rushing in my ears.
This is ridiculous.
I'm a grown woman.
I'm twenty-six years old.
Whatever the result is, I can handle it.
Two minutes.
What if it's positive?
What then?
We're in the middle of a crisis.
There's a woman out there who wants to kill me—or worse—as revenge against my father.
RJ is here to protect me from threats, not to start a family.
He's a soldier.
A Brotherhood operative.
His life is assignments and danger and moving from one crisis to the next.
This isn't the plan.
This isn't anyone's plan.
One minute.
But if it is positive... that's his baby.
Our baby. Something we made together in the middle of all this chaos.
Something good. Something that exists because we found each other, because we couldn't stay away from each other, because whatever this thing between us is, it's real and powerful and alive.
Thirty seconds.
I think about RJ at family dinner, watching my parents and Tor with something like wonder in his eyes.
The way he said he'd never had that—a family that gathered and laughed and loved each other.
The way he looked at me afterward, like I'd given him something precious just by letting him be there.
He wants a family.
I saw it in his face that night.
He wants what he never had.
Time's up.
My hands are trembling as I reach for the test.
I close my eyes, send up a prayer to whoever might be listening, and flip it over.
Two pink lines.
Positive.
I stare at it for a long moment, waiting for the panic to hit.
Waiting for the fear, the regret, the oh-god-what-have-I-done.
Instead, I feel my hand drift to my stomach.
Still flat. Still unchanged.
But not empty, not anymore.
There's a baby in there.
My baby.
Our baby.
The tears come without warning—hot and messy, streaming down my face faster than I can wipe them away.
I don't know if I'm crying from fear or joy or some overwhelming combination of both.
All I know is that everything has changed.
Everything is different now.
Everything.
I have to tell RJ.
But how? When?
We're in the middle of a war zone.
Solveig is out there, planning god knows what.
My father's club is on high alert.
RJ is already terrified of losing me—how is he going to react when he finds out there's even more at stake?
I need time to figure this out.
Need time to process, to plan, to find the right words and the right moment.
This isn't the kind of news you blurt out over breakfast.
This is the kind of news that changes everything—that deserves to be delivered with care, with intention, with love.
Tonight. I'll tell him tonight.
After everything calms down, after dinner, when it's just us in the basement.
I'll find a way to make it special, to make it mean something.
I hide the test in my pocket—I can't leave it here for someone else to find—and unlock the bathroom door.
One day.
I just need to get through one day.
RJ is awake when I get back to the basement, sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hand.
He looks up when I come in, and his eyes immediately narrow with concern.
"You okay? You look pale."
"Fine. Just couldn't sleep." I cross the room and settle beside him, leaning into his warmth.
His arm comes around me automatically, and I breathe him in—soap and coffee and something distinctly him. "What are you doing?"
"Checking in with the prospects on patrol. Everything's quiet."
"That's good, right?"
"Maybe." His fingers trace absent patterns on my shoulder. "Or maybe it just means she's waiting for the right moment."
I don't ask who "she" is.
We both know. Solveig.
The woman with her mother's face and almost thirty years of hatred.
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us.
I want to tell him.
The words are right there, sitting on my tongue.
I'm pregnant. We're having a baby. Everything is about to change.
But I can't.
Not like this, not in the middle of a crisis briefing, not with fear and exhaustion clouding both our minds.
He deserves better than that.
This baby deserves better than that.
"I was thinking," I say carefully, "maybe we could do something tonight. Just us. Something... normal."
He looks at me, curiosity softening the hard lines of his face. "What did you have in mind?"
"I don't know. Dinner in the basement. Candles, if I can find any." I trace patterns on his chest, suddenly nervous. My heart is beating too fast, my palms slightly sweaty. "I have something I want to talk to you about. Something important."
His body tenses slightly beneath my hand. "Good important or bad important?"
"Good. I think. I hope." I look up at him, and the worry in his expression makes my heart ache.
He's already carrying so much—the weight of protecting me, the fear of failing, the knowledge that danger is circling closer every day.
And I'm about to add to that weight.
"Nothing's wrong, RJ. I promise. I just... I need some time. Tonight. Can you give me that?"
He studies my face for a long moment, searching for something—a clue, a hint, some indication of what I'm hiding.
I try to keep my expression neutral, but I've never been good at hiding things from him.
He sees too much.
"You're nervous," he says quietly. "Your hands are shaking."
I look down and realize he's right.
My fingers are trembling against his chest.
"It's just..." I take a breath. "It's big. What I want to tell you. Life-changing, maybe. And I want to do it right. I want to give it the weight it deserves."
Something shifts in his expression.
Concern gives way to something else—hope, maybe, or anticipation. "You're not going to tell me you're secretly married, are you?"
I laugh despite myself. "No. Nothing like that."
"Running away to join the circus?"
"RJ."
"Taking up professional alligator wrestling?"
"You're ridiculous."