Chapter 10 #2
"I'm trying to make you smile." He cups my face in his hands, his gray eyes soft. "Whatever it is, Dalla, you can tell me. I'm not going anywhere."
"I know. That's why I want to do it right." I cover his hands with mine. "Tonight. I promise. Just... be patient with me?"
He studies me for another long moment, then nods slowly. "Tonight. Whatever you need."
I kiss him then—soft and slow, trying to pour everything I can't say into it. The secret growing inside me.
The fear and the joy and the overwhelming love that makes my chest ache.
He kisses me back, his hand coming up to tangle in my hair, and for a moment the world shrinks down to just this.
Just us.
Just the warmth of his mouth and the steady beat of his heart.
When we break apart, he's smiling.
It transforms his whole face, makes him look younger and lighter and so painfully beautiful that I want to memorize this moment.
Want to hold onto it forever.
"I love you," he says.
"I love you too." I press my forehead to his. "More than you know."
More than he could possibly imagine.
Because it's not just me anymore.
It's us—all three of us, even if he doesn't know it yet.
The morning passes slowly.
I try to work on follow-up notes for Greer—she loved the collection, wants to discuss next steps, mentioned something about a possible runway show in the summer—but I can't focus.
My mind keeps drifting to the pregnancy test hidden in my bag, to the conversation I'm going to have tonight, to the million ways this could go right or wrong.
RJ comes and goes throughout the morning, checking on patrols, meeting with my father, coordinating security.
Every time he leaves, I find myself staring at the door, practicing what I'm going to say.
RJ, I have something to tell you.
So, funny story...
Remember how we haven't been using protection?
God, that one's terrible.
They're all terrible.
Every few minutes, my hand drifts to my stomach.
Still flat. Still unchanged.
But harboring a secret that's going to change everything.
I wonder what RJ will say.
I wonder if he'll be happy, scared, or overwhelmed.
Probably all three—that seems to be my emotional state at the moment.
I wonder if he's thought about kids before—if he's imagined a future with a family, or if his life as a soldier has made that seem impossible.
I think about his childhood, the bits and pieces he's shared.
His mother leaving when he was three.
Growing up with just his da, being raised to be useful, to be a weapon.
No siblings, no extended family, no warmth.
He's never had what I had.
He's never known what it feels like to be surrounded by people who love you unconditionally.
Maybe I can give him that.
Maybe we can give each other that.
I wonder if I'm ready to be a mother.
The thought terrifies me.
I'm twenty-six years old, still building my career, still figuring out who I am and what I want.
I dropped out of med school because I needed my life to be my own.
A baby wasn't part of the plan.
But then again, neither was falling in love with my Irish bodyguard in the middle of a crisis.
Life has a way of laughing at your plans.
I think about my own mother—Fern, with her steady hands and her fierce love, the way she's held this family together through decades of danger and uncertainty.
She made it look easy, but I know it wasn't.
I know there were nights she didn't sleep, days she cried when she thought no one was watching.
Could I be that strong?
Could I raise a child in this world, with its violence and its secrets?
I don't know, but I know I want to try.
Around eleven, my phone buzzes with a text from Rev.
Greer says the collection samples are being produced. She wants you in New York next month for fittings. Congrats, sis. You did it.
I stare at the message, feeling tears prick my eyes.
My career is taking off.
My collection is going to be made, worn, and seen by the world.
A few months ago, this would have been the most exciting news of my life.
Now it's competing with a positive pregnancy test and the love of a man I barely knew six weeks ago.
My life has gotten very complicated very fast.
By noon, I'm starving.
The morning sickness has faded, replaced by a gnawing hunger that won't be ignored.
I remember reading somewhere that pregnancy hunger is different—more urgent, more demanding.
Your body needs fuel for two.
Two.
I press a hand to my stomach and feel a flutter of something that might be excitement or terror.
Probably both.
"I'm going to grab lunch at Bubba's," I tell RJ. "Do you want anything?"
He's in the middle of a call with someone from Ireland, his brow furrowed in concentration, but he covers the phone with his hand. "I'll come with you."
"It's literally attached to the clubhouse. I'll be fifty feet away, and at the first sign of trouble I can walk right back in."
"Dalla—"
"You can watch me walk through the door from here." I gesture to the door that connects Bubba’s to the clubhouse. "I'll sit where you can see me. Thirty minutes, tops."
He hesitates, clearly torn between his protective instincts and the knowledge that he can't smother me completely.
The compound is secure.
The bar is full of club members.
I'll be surrounded by people who would die to protect me.
"Thirty minutes," he says finally. "And you sit by the window."
"Deal."
I kiss his cheek and head out, grabbing my bag on the way.
The afternoon sun is bright and warm, the courtyard bustling with club activity.
Prospects working on bikes, their hands black with grease.
Ol’ ladies chatting on the porch, watching kids run around the yard.
A group of members gathered by the garage, laughing about something.
Normal life.
The kind of life I might have someday, if we survive this.
The kind of life our child might have.
Bubba's is half-full when I push through the door—club members eating lunch, a few old-timers nursing beers at the bar, a card game in the back corner.
The smell of grease and hops and something spicy cooking in the kitchen washes over me, and my stomach growls so loudly that the bartender looks up.
"Hungry?" he asks with a grin.
"Starving. Can I get a burger? Extra pickles. And fries. And maybe a side of onion rings."
He raises an eyebrow at the size of my order but doesn't comment. "Coming right up. Take a seat anywhere."
I claim a booth by the window, where RJ can see me from the clubhouse if he looks.
The leather is cracked and worn, the table scarred with decades of knife marks and carved initials.
This place has history.
Generations of Raiders have eaten here, drank here, celebrated and mourned here.
Maybe someday I'll bring my kid here.
Show them where their grandfather rules, where their family gathers.
Teach them about the legacy they're part of.
The food arrives fast—a massive burger dripping with cheese and special sauce, a mountain of golden fries, a basket of onion rings that could feed three people.
I devour it like I haven't eaten in days.
Which, honestly, I haven't—not properly.
Between the morning sickness and the stress, I've been running on coffee and crackers.
But I need to eat now. For the baby.
The baby. My baby. Our baby.
I'm still getting used to the idea, still wrapping my head around the reality of it.
There's a person growing inside me.
A tiny collection of cells that will eventually become a human being with RJ's gray eyes and my stubbornness and a whole life ahead of them.
It's terrifying. It's wonderful. It's completely insane.
I'm wiping burger grease off my fingers, contemplating whether I can fit any more onion rings, when a woman approaches my booth.
She's older than me—maybe early forties—with a tired face and anxious eyes.
Her clothes are slightly disheveled, a plain t-shirt and worn jeans, her hair escaping from a messy ponytail.
She looks like a mom, like someone who's been having a hard day.
Her hands are clasped in front of her, fingers twisting nervously.
"I'm so sorry to bother you," she says, her voice breathless with worry. "But you look like you might be from around here?"
"I am." I set down my napkin, giving her my full attention. "Is everything okay?"
"I don't know. I hope so." She glances toward the door, then back at me, her expression growing more distressed. "There's a little girl outside. She was walking down the street alone, and I couldn't just leave her there. She's maybe three or four, blonde hair, won't talk much. I think she's lost."
My heart clenches.
A lost little girl.
Three or four years old. Blonde. Alone and scared.
The same age my child will be someday.
"Did you call the police?"
"I tried, but my phone died." She holds up a dark screen, frustrated.
"I've been walking around trying to find someone who might know her.
I was hoping someone here might recognize her.
Know who her parents are." Her voice cracks slightly.
"She won't tell me her name, just keeps saying she wants her mommy.
She's so scared, and she won’t come with me either. "
I think about the clubhouse, all the families that live here.
The kids running around the courtyard.
A three-year-old blonde girl—that could be any number of children.
Hell, she could be one of ours.
"Where is she?"
"Just outside, around the corner. I didn't want to scare her by dragging her into a bar full of strangers." The woman's eyes are pleading, her voice earnest. "Could you come look? Just for a minute? Maybe you know her family. I just want to get her home safe."
I hesitate.
RJ's voice echoes in my head: Don't go anywhere alone. Stay where I can see you.
But this is a lost child.
A scared little girl who can't find her mother.
And the woman doesn't look threatening—she looks like a worried stranger trying to do the right thing.
The kind of person who stops to help because it's the decent thing to do.
The compound is right here.
The bar is twenty feet away.
I'll be gone for two minutes, max.
"Yeah, of course." I slide out of the booth, grabbing my bag. "Lead the way."
We walk out of Bubba's into the bright afternoon sun.
The courtyard is still busy, the sounds of the compound carrying on the warm breeze.
Motorcycles rumbling. Tools clanging. Someone laughing in the distance.
"She's just over here," the woman says, leading me around the corner of the building. "She was sitting on the curb when I found her. Poor thing was crying her eyes out."
I follow her into the narrow space between Bubba's and the storage shed.
It's shadowed back here, cooler, the sounds of the compound muffled by the buildings.
The ground is uneven, scattered with gravel and debris.
"Hello?" I call out. "Sweetheart? It's okay, we're going to help you find your—"
Something hits me from behind.
I go down hard, my knees slamming into the gravel, my palms scraping against the rough ground.
Pain explodes through me—sharp and immediate—and I try to scream but a hand clamps over my mouth before I can make a sound.
"Don't fight," a voice hisses in my ear. Male. Cold. "It'll be easier if you don't fight."
I fight anyway.
I thrash and kick and try to bite the hand covering my mouth, every self-defense lesson my father ever taught me flooding back in a rush of adrenaline.
I twist my body, trying to throw off my attacker.
My elbow connects with something solid—ribs, maybe—and I hear a grunt of pain.
But then there are more hands.
Too many hands.
Grabbing my arms, my legs, pinning me to the ground.
I can't see how many of them there are.
Two? Three? It doesn't matter.
There are too many.
"Hold her still," someone says. The woman. Her voice isn't anxious anymore. It's flat. Professional. Cold as ice. "We don't have much time before someone notices she's gone."
I try to scream again, but the hand on my mouth presses harder, grinding my lips against my teeth.
I taste blood. My own blood.
A cloth presses against my face.
Sweet, chemical smell that burns my nostrils and makes my eyes water.
Chloroform—my panicked brain supplies the information even as my body starts to go limp.
I learned about it in medical school.
Fast-acting. Disorienting. Dangerous if used incorrectly.
No. No, no, no. I have to fight. I have to stay awake. I have to—
RJ.
RJ will notice I'm gone.
He was watching the door.
He'll come looking.
He'll find me. He has to find me.
The baby. Oh god, the baby.
My limbs feel heavy, disconnected from my body.
The world is going fuzzy at the edges, sounds distorting like I'm underwater.
I try to hold on, try to stay conscious, but the darkness is pulling at me, dragging me down.
My last coherent thought, as the world fades to black, is a desperate prayer.
Please. Please let the baby be okay. Please let RJ find us.
Then nothing.