Chapter 46 Cruz Blood
Chapter forty-six
Cruz Blood
Lena
Five months ago, my brother told me I was dead to him.
Chose a motorcycle club President over family loyalty? Dead.
Pregnant with the enemy's baby? Dead.
Walked away from everything Cruz to build something with Zane? Dead, dead, dead.
But now Miguel Cruz—stubborn, protective, impossibly complicated Miguel—is standing in my hospital room holding my two-day-old son, crying like his heart just remembered how to break.
And somehow, impossibly, we're alive again.
Two hours earlier, I watched Zane walk out of this room to defend his Presidency.
Watched him kiss Santiago's forehead like he was memorizing the shape of him. Whisper promises about coming back. About still being President when he did.
Then he left to fight Ghost's challenge while I stayed here—two days post-delivery, holding our hours-old son, praying Zane's right. That choosing us makes him stronger, not the liability Ghost claims.
Because if Ghost wins that vote, if Zane loses his Presidency, everything we've built shatters.
I can't sleep despite the exhaustion that lives in my bones. Santiago nurses, making small content sounds against my chest. Every minute feels like an hour. Every sound in the hallway could be news—good or catastrophic.
Izzy sits in the chair by the window, pretending to scroll through her phone but actually watching me with that expression she gets when she's working up to something.
"I need to ask you something," she says finally.
I look up from Santiago. "What?"
"Do you want me to call Miguel?"
The world stops.
Just stops.
Like someone hit pause on my entire existence and all I can hear is my own heartbeat and Santiago's tiny breaths and the question hanging in the air like a loaded gun.
"He said I was dead to him," I whisper.
"People say stupid things when they're scared."
"It's been five months, Izzy. Five months of nothing.
No texts, no calls, no contact. He doesn't even know I was pregnant.
" My voice cracks on the last word. "Doesn't know about the preterm labor at thirty-three weeks.
Doesn't know I spent a month on bed rest terrified I'd lose Santiago.
Doesn't know I gave birth yesterday without my family there. "
"Exactly. Which is why he should know now. He's an uncle. And you need your brother."
The tears start before I can stop them. Post-partum hormones plus five months of grief plus the fear of Zane fighting for his position plus the exhaustion of seventeen hours of labor—it all crashes over me at once.
"I don't know if I can handle him rejecting me again," I say, voice breaking completely. "Not now. Not when I just had a baby and Zane's fighting to keep his Presidency, and everything is so fragile I feel like one more thing will break me completely."
Izzy moves to the bed, sits carefully on the edge. "Then we don't call. But Lena... you've been waiting for him to reach out for five months. Someone has to make the first move."
"I betrayed him. I chose Zane. I chose the enemy."
"You chose love. That's not betrayal."
"Miguel doesn't see it that way."
"Let me call," Izzy says gently. "If he doesn't want to come, that's on him. But at least he'll know. At least you tried. And maybe—just maybe—having a nephew changes things."
I look down at Santiago. His dark hair, Zane's coloring but my father's nose. Cruz nose. The physical proof that I carry both worlds in my arms.
"Okay," I whisper, tears falling onto Santiago's head. "Call him."
Izzy steps into the hallway to make the call.
I can hear her voice through the door but not the words. Just tones—urgent, pleading, insistent.
The conversation goes on for fifteen minutes that feel like fifteen years.
I hold Santiago, count his breaths, and try not to hope. Hope is dangerous. Hope gets you hurt. Hope makes you believe in impossible things like brothers who come back after telling you you're dead to them.
Medical terminology runs through my head like a liturgy—Tachycardia (my racing heart), Hyperventilation (my shallow breaths), Acute anxiety response (everything).
I force myself to slow down. Breathe. Santiago needs me calm, not spiraling.
The door opens. Izzy's face tells me everything before she says a word.
"He's coming."
The breath leaves my lungs all at once. "What did he say?"
"Not much. I told him you had a baby. A boy. Seven pounds, two ounces. Named Santiago. After your dad." Izzy's own eyes are wet now. "He kept saying 'a baby?' like he couldn't process it. Then silence. Long silence. Then: 'I'm coming.' And he hung up."
"What if he gets here and changes his mind?" The words tumble out in a panic. "What if he sees Santiago and doesn't want anything to do with us? What if—"
"Then I'll kick his ass," Izzy interrupts. "But I don't think that's going to happen. I know your brother, mija. He's stubborn and protective and sometimes catastrophically stupid. But he loves you. He's always loved you."
"Love wasn't enough to keep him around."
"Maybe not then. But maybe now it is."
Forty-five minutes of torture.
I alternate between hope and dread, rehearsing what I'll say, trying to prepare for every possible reaction. Santiago sleeps peacefully through my emotional crisis, completely unaware that his existence might be the thing that stitches a family back together.
Or tears it apart permanently.
Every footstep in the hallway makes me jump. Every voice that's not Miguel's is a small disappointment followed by relief followed by more waiting.
Then—
A knock.
Soft. Tentative.
Not Miguel's usual confident rap that announces his presence like a challenge.
My heart stops. Actually stops. I'm a trauma nurse, I know hearts don't actually stop, but mine does. Just freezes in my chest like it's too scared to keep beating.
"Come in," I manage, voice barely above a whisper.
The door opens slowly.
And there he is.
Miguel fills the doorway like he always has—six feet of protective older brother energy wrapped in Coyote Fangs leather.
But he looks older than five months should account for.
Gray threading through his beard that I don't remember.
Lines around his eyes carved deeper. The weight of five months of estrangement written into every line of his face.
His eyes are red-rimmed. From the ride? From crying? Both?
When he sees me—sees Santiago in my arms—he stops breathing.
Just stops.
Like his lungs forgot their job. Like the world pressed pause on this impossible moment and neither of us knows how to hit play again.
Twenty seconds of silence that feel like twenty years.
I can see him taking it in—me in the hospital bed, exhausted and emotional. Santiago swaddled against my chest. The reality of what happened while he wasn't here.
"You had a baby," he says finally. Voice rough like he's been screaming or crying or both.
And something in me breaks.
"Five months ago, you said I was dead to you."
Miguel steps inside, closes the door with a soft click. "I was wrong."
I laugh, bitter and sharp. "That's it? You were wrong?"
"I was scared." He runs a hand over his face, a gesture so familiar it hurts. "I was stupid. I was... I thought I'd lose you. To him. To the violence. Like we lost Mom and Dad. And instead of fighting for you, I pushed you away."
The anger rises hot in my throat. "You didn't just push me away. You cut me out. Completely. No calls, no texts, nothing. I was pregnant and terrified and alone, and you weren't there."
"I know."
"Do you?" My voice rises despite my effort to keep it level.
"Do you know what it's like to go through pregnancy without your family?
To have complications and almost lose him at thirty-three weeks with no one to call?
To spend a month on bed rest wondering if my baby would survive, if I'd survive, if any of this was worth it?
To give birth knowing my brother didn't even know I was pregnant? "
Miguel flinches with every word like they're physical blows. "No. I don't. But I'm here now."
"Is that supposed to fix five months?"
"No." His voice breaks on the word. "Nothing fixes that. I fucked up, mija. I fucked up so bad." He looks at Santiago, and something in his expression crumbles completely. "Can I... can I meet him?"
I look down at my son. At Cruz nose and Reeves coloring and the perfect miracle sleeping peacefully through our family drama. At the bridge between our broken relationship. At everything I wanted Miguel to see and was terrified he never would.
"His name is Santiago Cruz-Quinn," I whisper. "After Dad."
Miguel's face does something complicated—grief and joy and regret all twisted together. "You gave him Dad's name."
"He was your father too. He deserves to be remembered."
"Can I hold him?"
The question hangs there. Permission to touch, to connect, to start rebuilding what we broke.
I want to say yes immediately. Want to hand over my son and pretend the last five months didn't happen. But I can't. Not yet.
"Wash your hands first," I say, medical training overriding emotion. "Sink's over there."
Miguel moves to the sink, methodical and thorough. I watch his reflection in the mirror—hands shaking slightly, jaw tight, trying to keep himself together.
He dries his hands, turns around, takes a deep breath like he's preparing for battle.
"I need to tell you something first," he says. "About why I said what I said."
"What?"
"The President found out about you and Quinn." Miguel's voice goes flat, controlled. The tone he uses when he's delivering bad news. "He ordered me to cut ties. Said having a lieutenant whose sister is fucking the Iron Talons President makes us look weak. Makes me look compromised."
The words hit like a physical blow. "So you chose the club."
"I chose survival. For both of us." He takes a step closer. "If I'd refused, they would've handled it. Handled you. This way, publicly disowned, you were off-limits. Protected by my rejection."