Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dalla
The ultrasound wand is cold against my stomach.
I'm lying on a hospital bed in a private room, a thin gown covering the worst of my wounds, while a technician moves the device across my abdomen.
The cuts have been cleaned and bandaged—shallow, the ER doctor said, won't even scar if I'm careful.
The bruises on my face are already darkening, purple and yellow blooming across my cheekbone, but none of that matters right now.
All that matters is the screen.
RJ stands beside me, his hand gripping mine so tightly it almost hurts.
His face is pale beneath the blood that still spatters his shirt—he refused to leave my side long enough to clean up.
His jaw is clenched, his eyes fixed on the monitor like it holds the answer to every question he's ever had.
Like our entire future depends on what that screen shows.
"There we go," the technician says, adjusting the angle. She's kind, this woman—middle-aged, with warm eyes and a gentle touch.
She hasn't asked about my injuries, hasn't questioned the armed man covered in blood who refuses to leave the room.
She just does her job, professional and calm. "See that flicker?"
I look at the screen.
It's mostly gray and black, shapes I can't quite make sense of.
Shadows and static and nothing that looks like a baby.
But there—in the center—a tiny white blob.
No bigger than a raspberry, maybe.
And inside the blob, a rapid flutter of movement.
"That's the heartbeat," she continues, pointing with her free hand. "Strong and steady. About 160 beats per minute, which is perfectly normal for this stage."
The heartbeat. Our baby's heartbeat.
The tears come before I can stop them.
Silent streams rolling down my cheeks, blurring my vision until I can barely see the screen.
But I don't need to see it.
I can hear it now—the technician has turned on the audio, and the room fills with a rapid whooshing sound.
Like tiny horse hooves galloping.
Like waves on a shore.
Like the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
"The baby is okay?" RJ's voice is rough. Strained. Like he's holding himself together by sheer force of will. "After everything—the stress, the—" He can't finish the sentence. Can't say the words.
The kidnapping. The knife. The threats.
"Everything looks perfect," the technician assures him with a warm smile. "The embryo is measuring right on track for six weeks. Heartbeat is strong. No signs of distress or abnormality."
She glances between us, her expression softening at whatever she sees in our faces. "Whatever happened, your baby is a fighter."
A fighter, like its father.
RJ makes a sound—something between a laugh and a sob.
His grip on my hand tightens even further, and when I look up at him, I see tears tracking down his face.
This hardened soldier, this man who's killed without hesitation, who put a bullet between a woman's eyes without flinching—crying over a blurry image on a screen.
I've never loved him more than I do in this moment.
"Thank you," I manage to say to the technician, my voice thick with emotion. "Thank you so much."
She nods, understanding that we need a moment alone. "I'll print some pictures for you. Several copies—I have a feeling grandparents might want one." She winks, and I find myself smiling. "The doctor will be in shortly to discuss your other injuries and discharge instructions."
She slips out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
We just stare at the frozen image on the screen—our baby, alive and healthy.
A tiny miracle that survived kidnapping and terror and a knife pressed against my stomach.
"I thought I lost you," RJ finally says. His voice is barely a whisper. "Both of you. When I found your bag, and the blood, and then the test—" He breaks off, shaking his head. "I've never been so scared in my life, Dalla. Not in combat, not on any mission, not ever. The thought of losing you—"
"You didn't." I reach up and touch his face, wiping away the tears with my thumb. "I'm here. We're both here."
"I know." He turns his head and presses a kiss to my palm.
"But I keep seeing it. Seeing you in that chair, bleeding, with that knife at your throat.
Hearing her say she was going to—" His jaw clenches.
"I keep thinking about what would have happened if we'd been there five minutes later.
If Tor hadn't distracted her. If I'd missed the shot. "
"But you didn't miss. You saved us."
"I almost didn't get the chance." He sinks into the chair beside my bed, still holding my hand.
He looks exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, blood still spattered on his shirt, the weight of the day pressing down on him. "When she said she was going to cut the baby out of you, I—" He stops. Swallows hard. "Something broke in me, Dalla. Something I didn't even know was there."
"RJ..."
"I was going to tell you tonight," I remind him softly. "I had this whole plan. Dinner in the basement, candles, the right moment. I wanted it to be special. I wanted to see your face when I told you."
"You could have told me in a bloody gas station bathroom and it would have been special." He brings my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles. "You're having my baby. There's nothing about that that isn't special."
Fresh tears spill down my cheeks. "I was so scared. Not for me—for the baby. When she had the knife against my stomach, all I could think about was protecting it. Protecting our child."
"I know." He moves from the chair to the edge of the bed, carefully avoiding my bandaged wounds. "I know, love. And you did. You kept our baby safe until I could get to you."
"We made a baby," I whisper, still not quite believing it. "We're going to be parents."
"We are." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Terrifying thought, isn't it?"
"A little." I laugh through my tears. "I don't know the first thing about being a mother."
"And I know even less about being a father." He shrugs. "But we'll figure it out. Together."
"What happens now?" I ask. "With your job, with the Brotherhood—"
"I'll figure it out."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have right now." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not leaving you, Dalla. Whatever happens with the Brotherhood, whatever my Da says, I'm not going back to Dublin without you. You and this baby are my family now."
"But your father—"
"Will understand. Or he won't. Either way, it doesn't change anything.
" His gray eyes meet mine, steady and certain.
"I spent my whole life being a weapon for other people.
Following orders, completing missions, never putting down roots because I knew I might have to leave at any moment.
But that's not who I want to be anymore. "
"Who do you want to be?"
"Yours." The word is simple. Absolute. "I want to be yours. And this baby's father. And whatever else comes with that—husband, partner, pain in the arse who won't let you out of his sight—I want all of it."
Husband.
The word sends a flutter through my chest that has nothing to do with fear.
"We don't have to figure everything out today," I say. "We have time."
"We do." He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead.
"But I want you to know—wherever you go, I go.
If your career takes you to New York, we go to New York.
If you want to stay in Florida, we stay in Florida.
If you want to try Ireland for a while, we'll make it work.
I don't care where we are, as long as we're together. "
"What about the club? My father—"
"Your father gave me his blessing. Whatever that means for the future, we'll figure it out." He smiles, and it's the most beautiful thing I've seen all day. "Stop worrying about logistics, love. We just found out our baby is healthy. Let's enjoy that for a minute."
He's right. He's absolutely right.
I pull him down and kiss him—soft at first, then deeper.
He tastes like coffee and exhaustion and relief.
His hand comes up to cup my face, gentle despite the strength I know is in those fingers.
"I need you," he murmurs against my lips. "I know you're hurt, I know this isn't the time, but—"
"I need you too."
It's true.
After everything—the fear, the pain, the hours of not knowing if I'd ever see him again—I need to feel him.
Need to know he's real, that this is real, that we survived.
"The door—"
"Has a lock." He's already moving, crossing the room in two strides and flipping the deadbolt.
When he turns back to me, his eyes are dark with want. "Are you sure? If it's too much—"
"Get over here."
He's at my bedside in an instant, his mouth finding mine again.
The kiss is deeper this time, more urgent.
His hands are careful as they skim down my body, avoiding the bandages, but there's nothing careful about the way he's kissing me.
Like I'm oxygen and he's been drowning.
"I love you," he breathes against my neck. "God, Dalla, I love you so much."
"I love you too."
He helps me shift on the bed, making room for him.
The hospital gown is easy to push aside, and then his hands are on my skin—warm and reverent, touching me like I'm something precious.
Something sacred.
"I almost lost you," he says again, and this time it's not grief in his voice.
It's something else. Something darker, more primal. "I'm never letting that happen again. You're mine. This baby is mine. And I will kill anyone who tries to take you from me."
"I know."
"I need you to know it." His hand slides down my stomach, gentle over the bandaged cuts, then lower. "I need you to feel it."
And then he's touching me, and I stop thinking altogether.
It's different from the other times. Slower. More deliberate.
He watches my face as his fingers move, cataloging every gasp, every shiver, every whispered plea.
When I try to rush him, he holds me down with one hand on my hip.
"Let me," he murmurs. "Let me take care of you."
So I do.