Chapter 14 #2
I let him worship me with his hands and his mouth, let him bring me to the edge and back again until I'm trembling with need.
And when he finally slides inside me, it's so gentle it makes me want to cry.
"Okay?" he asks, holding himself still.
"More than okay." I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. "Don't stop."
He doesn't.
He moves slowly, carefully, mindful of my injuries but no less intense for it.
Every thrust is deliberate, every stroke designed to make me feel how much he loves me.
His forehead presses against mine, our breath mingling, our eyes locked.
"I've got you," he whispers. "I've always got you."
The pleasure builds slowly, a wave instead of a crash.
When it finally crests, I come apart in his arms, his name on my lips, tears streaming down my face.
He follows moments later, burying his face in my neck, his whole body shaking with the force of it.
For a long moment afterward, we just hold each other.
His weight is warm and solid above me, his heart pounding against my chest.
I run my fingers through his hair, feeling the tension slowly drain from his body.
"That was—" he starts.
"Yeah." I laugh softly. "It was."
He lifts his head and kisses me again, soft and sweet. "I love you."
"I love you too." I touch his face, tracing the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "Both of us do."
His hand slides down to rest on my stomach, right over the place where our baby is growing.
The smile that crosses his face is unlike any I've seen before—soft and wondering and full of a hope I didn't know he was capable of.
"Both of you," he repeats. "I like the sound of that."
By the time we get back to the compound, the sun has set.
The drive was quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts.
RJ kept one hand on the wheel and the other on my thigh, like he couldn't bear to not be touching me.
I leaned against him, watching the Florida landscape blur past, trying to process everything that's happened in the last twelve hours.
Kidnapped. Held at knifepoint. Rescued. And through it all, the baby held on.
Our baby.
The doctor cleared me with instructions to rest, keep the wounds clean, and follow up with an OB in the next few weeks.
She gave me a list of prenatal vitamins to start taking, printed instructions for care during the first trimester, and a referral to one of the best obstetricians in Tallahassee.
The cuts on my throat and stomach are superficial—they'll heal without scarring if I'm careful.
The bruises will fade. The memories... those will take longer.
But I'm alive. The baby is alive. And RJ hasn't let go of my hand since we left the hospital.
The clubhouse is quiet when we pull in, the compound bathed in the soft glow of security lights.
Most of the members are probably at Bubba's, celebrating the successful rescue or processing what happened in their own ways.
Violence takes a toll, even on men who deal in it regularly.
A few prospects nod at us as we pass, their expressions respectful, almost reverent.
Word has spread.
The president's daughter was taken, and they got her back.
The men who took her are dead.
The woman behind it all has a bullet in her brain.
In the MC world, that's a victory worth celebrating.
RJ takes me straight to the basement, settling me on the bed like I'm made of glass.
He's been handling me like this since the hospital—gentle, careful, like I might shatter if he's too rough.
Part of me wants to tell him I'm not that fragile.
Another part of me doesn't mind being treated like something precious.
"You need anything?" he asks, hovering by the bed. "Water? Food? Another blanket? I can run up to the kitchen—"
"I need you to stop hovering." But I'm smiling as I say it. "I'm okay, RJ. Really."
"You were kidnapped and held at knifepoint less than twelve hours ago. You're carrying our child. You're covered in bandages." He crosses his arms, stubborn. "I'm going to hover."
"And I'm home. With you." I pat the bed beside me. "Sit down. Please. You're making me anxious."
He sits, but the tension doesn't leave his shoulders.
I don't think it will for a while.
He's going to be impossible for the next few months—overprotective, paranoid, jumping at every shadow.
And honestly? I don't mind.
After what we went through, a little paranoia feels justified.
Maybe a lot of paranoia.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it, expecting a text from my mom or Rev—I sent them both messages from the hospital letting them know I was okay.
It's Greer.
"Oh god," I mutter, sitting up straighter. "I completely forgot—"
"What?"
"My collection. The deadline. Everything." I run a hand through my tangled hair, panic rising in my chest. "With everything that happened, I never followed up. She's probably been trying to reach me all day—"
I answer the call before I can spiral further. "Greer, I'm so sorry, I—"
"Dalla! Finally!" Her voice is bright, excited. Not angry. Relief floods through me. "I've been trying to reach you all afternoon. Are you okay? Your sister said there was some kind of family emergency."
Bless Rev and her quick thinking.
I make a mental note to thank her later.
"Yes, I'm fine. Everything's fine now. I'm sorry I went dark—"
"Don't apologize, please. Family comes first. Always." She pauses, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "But I do have news that I think will make your day considerably better."
"News?"
"The samples from your collection arrived at the showroom yesterday. Dalla, they're stunning. Even better than I expected from the sketches, and I already had high expectations." She laughs at whatever sound I make. "The buyers who've seen them are already asking about orders."
My heart stutters. "Orders?"
"Multiple orders. From major retailers. We're talking Nordstrom, Saks, Neiman Marcus—they all want pieces.
" She's practically giddy now. "I told you your work was special.
This collection is going to put you on the map, Dalla.
We're talking features in Vogue, Elle, Harper's Bazaar. Runway shows. The whole thing."
I can barely process what she's saying.
After everything—the kidnapping, the terror, the violence—my career is somehow still moving forward.
My dreams are still coming true.
The sketches I submitted before everything went to hell have become something real, something wanted, something that might actually launch the career I've been working toward for years.
"I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll be in New York next month for the show. We're putting together something special—a showcase for emerging designers—and I want your collection front and center. Can you make that work?"
"I'll be there," I promise, my voice steadier than I feel. "Thank you, Greer. For everything. For believing in me."
"Thank you for proving me right." I can hear her smile. "Get some rest, okay? We'll talk details next week."
After I hang up, RJ is watching me with a curious expression. "Good news?"
"The best." I tell him about the orders, the features, the runway show in New York.
His face lights up as I speak, genuine happiness for my success.
No jealousy, no resentment—just pure, uncomplicated joy that good things are happening for me.
"I told you," he says. "Your work is brilliant. The world was going to see it eventually."
"We'll have to go to New York," I say. "For the show. Next month. Will you come with me?"
"Try to stop me." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "You think I'm letting you out of my sight for a trip to New York? Not a chance."
"Overprotective much?"
"Absolutely. Get used to it."
A knock at the door interrupts us.
Before I can respond, it opens, and my mother appears in the doorway.
"Dalla." Her voice breaks on my name.
"Mom."
She crosses the room in three strides and pulls me into a hug so tight it makes my ribs ache.
I don't care.
I cling to her, breathing in her familiar scent, letting myself be a daughter again.
"I was so scared," she whispers. "When your father told me what happened—"
"I'm okay, Mom. I promise."
She pulls back, her hands framing my face, her eyes scanning every bruise and bandage. "You are not okay. Look at you."
"I'm alive. The doctors checked me out. Everything is—" I hesitate, glancing at RJ.
He gives me a small nod.
Now or never.
"Mom, there's something I need to tell you."
Her brow furrows. "What is it?"
My father appears in the doorway behind her, his expression unreadable.
He looks as exhausted as I feel, but there's something softer in his eyes when he looks at me.
Relief, maybe. Or gratitude.
"What's going on?" he asks.
I take a deep breath. RJ's hand finds mine, anchoring me.
"I'm pregnant."
The silence that follows is deafening.
My mother's mouth opens, closes, opens again.
My father goes completely still, his eyes moving from me to RJ and back again, but he already knew this from the farmhouse earlier.
"Pregnant," my mother repeats. "You're—"
"About six weeks, according to the ultrasound." I squeeze RJ's hand. "The baby is healthy. The doctor confirmed it today."
Another long silence.
"A grandbaby," my mother whispers. Tears are forming in her eyes now. "Runes, we're going to have another grandbaby."
"Apparently so." But my father is almost smiling. Almost.
My mother pulls me into another hug, laughing and crying at the same time. "Oh, sweetheart. Oh, my baby is having a baby."
"You're not mad?"
"Mad?" She pulls back, wiping her eyes. "Dalla, after today—after almost losing you—how could I be mad about this? This is a miracle. This is life, continuing on despite everything terrible in the world." She touches my face. "I'm thrilled, baby girl. I'm absolutely thrilled."
I look at my father over her shoulder.
He's watching RJ with an expression I can't quite read.
"You'll take care of them," he says. Not a question. A statement.
"With my life," RJ replies.
My father nods slowly.
Then he crosses the room and does something I never expected—he pulls RJ into a brief, rough embrace.
"Welcome to the family," he says gruffly. "For real this time."
When he steps back, I swear I see tears in his eyes too.
My mother insists on hearing everything about the pregnancy—when I found out, how I've been feeling, what my symptoms have been.
She's already making plans for prenatal vitamins and maternity clothes and doctor recommendations.
It's overwhelming and wonderful and exactly what I need after the day I've had.
Eventually, my parents leave us alone with promises to check in tomorrow.
The door closes behind them, and the basement falls quiet.
RJ pulls me into his arms, and I go willingly, tucking my head under his chin.
"That went well," he says.
"Better than expected." I smile against his chest. "My father hugged you."
"I'm still in shock about that, honestly."
"He likes you. He'd never admit it, but he does."
"He tolerates me because you love me. There's a difference." But he's smiling too. "Although I think saving your life might have earned me some actual points."
"A few." I tilt my head up to look at him. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For coming for me. For not giving up. For killing the woman who wanted to hurt our baby." I touch his face. "For being here."
"Always," he says. "For all of it. Always."
He kisses me then—soft and sweet and full of promise.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I feel something I haven't felt in days.
Safe.
Loved.
Home.