Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
SHE BETTER NOT HAVE MY BABY ON THE FLOOR
HENRY
“Where’s Louis?”
“Aunt Joe’s,” I say without turning, the bacon crackling as I press it flat with the spatula.
I feel his eyes on my back, heavy and knowing. “I’ve seen that sketch before,” he mutters, voice low.
He means the one of Mama on the steps—sunlight in her hair, a daisy behind her ear laughing at the way Merc had tried and failed miserably to braid Soph's hair.
“Yeah,” I say. “Lou drew it.”
When I turn, the question’s already waiting on his face. “How many did she draw?”
I meet his gaze, steady. “Just the ones that matter.”
The ones of our family. The way she saw us when we couldn’t see ourselves. Quiet moments, broken smiles, the truth of who we were—etched in pencil and love, like she was trying to hold us all together on paper when everything else was falling apart.
I didn’t want to press her last night—not after everything. Lou’s built like iron but cracks like glass if you hit her just right. Her mama showing up out of the blue? That was a fucking hammer.
I did my best to put that worthless woman far from my mind and hers. My nerves were shot, but I kept it on lock because Lou didn’t need more fire. She needed quiet. She needed care.
Maybe I’d pushed her too far, told her fuck a safeword, crossed a line I swore I never would.
But I watched her—watched the way her body yielded, not in fear, but in relief.
Her breath stuttered, her thighs trembling, the way her fingers curled onto the hood of the car holding on for dear life and letting go at the same damn time.
If she hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t needed it—I wouldn’t have touched her.
Hell, I’d rather take a rusty fork to my left nut than hurt her.
I ran her bath, let the citrus soak she loved rise in the air while I went to say goodnight to Mama.
When I came back, Lou was standing there—still, small in the hallway light.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, lashes clumped with tears she hadn’t wiped away.
Her face looked hollowed out and somehow softer than I’d seen it in weeks, hell maybe years.
Like heartbreak and relief were sitting side by side.
She didn’t say a word when I walked up. Just let me take her hand and lead her back. I undressed her slow, whisper-soft, kissing every mark I’d left like a prayer. Her skin was flushed, and the red prints blooming on her thick ass made her hiss and smirk all at once.
“I’m going to pay you back for that,” she murmured, voice heavy with exhaustion.
“Wildflower,” I said, brushing a kiss to her shoulder, “I’d be devastated if you didn’t.”
She gave me that wicked little smile that always ruined me. “Good. Then fold your big ass in that tub with me.”
Somehow, we made it work—her tucked between my legs, the water sloshing over the porcelain edge, her bare back pressed to my chest. She traced the ink on my arms with slow, lazy fingers while I lathered her hair, the scent of citrus filling the air.
I poured water down her shoulders, watched it bead down the curve of her spine, felt her breath ease with every pass of my hands.
Afterward, I toweled her off slow, kneeling in front of her like she was holy. Rubbed arnica into her sore skin, kissed the places that bore my name in bruised reds and purples. I brushed out her hair while she leaned into me, quiet, trusting, soft in a way she never showed anyone else.
I tried to line up those sacred fucking pillows she kept like a wall between us, stacking them just right on the bed like ritual.
But she shook her head, eyes already heavy with sleep, voice barely above a whisper.
“Just hold me.”
So, that’s exactly what the fuck I did.
I held her all night, her body tucked against mine like she finally let herself rest. For once, no armor. Just skin.
Then came dawn—quiet, blue-edged, and breathless—and she moved over me, slow and sure, sliding down my cock with a kind of heat that stole the air from my lungs.
Those honey-burnt eyes locked on mine, wild and steady, as her palm pressed over my mouth demanding I lay there and take it.
She rolled her hips with deliberate cruelty, watching me unravel beneath her, a smirk ghosting across her mouth like she knew I’d beg if she let me. Then her fingers wrapped around my throat—soft, firm, devastating—and she detonated on top of me, hips stuttering, mouth open on a silent gasp.
I didn’t breathe until she did.
Best fucking wake-up call of my life.
Brr. Brr.
My phone lights up on the counter, vibrating against a chipped mug. The sound yanking me out of the haze, straight into the now.
I wipe my hands quickly on a towel and answer, “Yes, ma’am?”
“Go get your brother and meet us at the hospital!” Her voice comes like a shotgun blast—tight and urgent.
“Hospital?” I blink, confused. “Wait, what—?”
In the background, I hear chaos—footsteps, clattering, and then a familiar voice shrieking through the noise, “Don’t call him yet! It’s fine!”
My spine straightens. “Is that—?”
“Hurry the hell up, Louisiana, before she has this baby on my God damn kitchen floor!”
Click.
Silence. Then—
“Shit!”
I toss the fork down and kill the burner. The bacon sizzles in protest as I spin around, heartbeat slamming into my ribs like a war drum.
“Dallas!” I yell down the hallway. “Get dressed—we got to go!”
I don’t even wait for Dallas to throw on a damn shirt.
Just snatch his arm and shove us both out the front door, my pulse hammering in my throat like a war drum.
The morning air hits us hard—cool, sharp, electric—like it knows something big is coming.
We tear down the steps, feet slapping against wood, gravel crunching beneath our boots as we make a beeline for my blacked-out Thunder Ridge Sheriff squad car.
I fumble the keys out of my pocket with shaking hands, my chest already tight with adrenaline.
“Buckle up,” I bark, jamming the key in the ignition. One hand on the wheel, the other still fighting with the buttons on my shirt, I gun it out of the driveway like I have the devil himself riding shotgun.
We don’t speak. Not a word.
Just the scream of the wind through the cracked window, the howl of the tires, and the distant strobe of red and blue lights bouncing off the sleeping streets as I tear across town like something unholy.
When we hit The Boxing Den, I don’t park—I land. Tires squeal. Gravel spit. The second the car jerks to a stop, I am out and moving, boots pounding up the steps and across the porch like gunfire.
My shirt flaps open as I shoulder through the front door, lungs burning, chest heaving.
“MADDOX!” I roar, voice ricocheting off the concrete walls. “Maddox, get your ass out here!”
They come from the back—him and Lucien—both shirtless, slick with sweat, looking like I’ve just interrupted the God damn apocalypse.
Maddox’s eyes lock on mine. “The fuck—”
“No time,” I cut in, panting, grinning like a madman. “It’s go time, Daddy.”
No panic. No hesitation. He doesn’t even blink.
Just lets out a low, feral growl and storms past me, muttering, “She better not have my baby on that old crow’s fucking floor.”
Lucien lets out a low whistle behind me. “Shit just got real.”
Damn right it did.
I don’t even wait—I am already moving again, heart jackhammering, a wild grin stretching across my face as I chase Maddox back to the cruiser.
It is happening.
Baby girl is making her way into the world today.