Epilogue
Emma
Six months pregnant with twins is a special kind of hell.
I never quite understood the depth of that statement until the day the doctor first told Ryan and me there were two heartbeats instead of just one.
At the time, I thought it was sweet and exciting, the prospect of welcoming not one, but two little lives into the world.
Now? Now I waddle. Everywhere I go, I feel like a duck, my once graceful movements replaced with a clumsy shuffle.
My center of gravity feels like it’s vanished into thin air, leaving my lower back in a constant state of discomfort.
And to add insult to injury, my bladder seems to have the structural integrity of a paper cup—every slight movement is a gamble.
To make matters worse, my stomach has developed very specific and very aggressive cravings.
Today’s craving? A fountain Diet Coke. But not just any Diet Coke—I need it in a styrofoam cup, with Grillo’s dill pickle chips floating right in the drink.
Yes, floating. Don’t even question it. Those little boys in my belly know exactly what they want, and right now, it’s all about that fizzy, tangy combination.
Ryan jokes that the babies are already “little psychopaths.” Honestly, I think they might just be geniuses.
Unfortunately, the club meeting—what the guys affectionately call “church”—has been dragging on for over an hour.
That means the man with the truck keys, the one who could rescue me and bring me my much-needed drink, is locked away in a room arguing about something that feels utterly unimportant in comparison to my cravings. So here I am, suffering. Deeply.
I’ve taken a seat on a barstool in the kitchen area of the clubhouse, holding a canned Diet Coke like it’s personally offended me.
“This is useless,” I mutter under my breath, frustration spilling out.
I take a sip and immediately make a face. “Disgusting.”
It’s far from the icy fountain promise I crave—it's not cold enough, and definitely not fizzy enough. My mood dips further.
Just then, a nervous voice breaks through my thoughts. “Miss Emma?”
I look up to find one of the prospects standing there, a poor kid who has been assigned to hover around me for the past month like I’m some kind of fragile royal.
“Yes?” I respond, trying to muster a smile.
“You said you wanted a drink?” he asks, hope flickering in his eyes.
“I do,” I reply, my tone a mix of desperation and longing.
“I can make one,” he offers, his enthusiasm evident.
I stare at him, skepticism dominating my expression. “You cannot.”
His face brightens. “I can try.”
I let out a dramatic sigh, surrendering to the moment. “Fine.”
He disappears behind the bar, and I can almost envision him preparing for some grand operation, like he’s about to perform brain surgery instead of simply pouring a drink. A few minutes later, he reappears triumphantly, sliding a cup toward me with a proud grin.
“There.”
I look down to inspect my prize. A plastic cup. Wrong ice. And, worst of all, no pickles. My heart sinks like a stone.
“This is wrong,” I say, disappointment lacing my words.
His face falls instantly. “What?”
“You used a plastic cup,” I explain, my voice tinged with exasperation.
“I couldn’t find styrofoam,” he admits, looking genuinely distressed.
“It has to be styrofoam,” I insist, my tone leaving no room for negotiation.
He freezes, perplexed. “...Why?”
“Because it just does,” I reply, my irritation bubbling up.
Despite my protests, I take a sip anyway, hoping for the best. But the moment it touches my tongue, tears spring to my eyes. This isn’t it. It’s all wrong.
Suddenly, I’m crying—no, not just sniffly crying; I’m having a full-blown pregnancy meltdown. Shoulders shaking, face wet, I can’t seem to stop.
“Oh my God,” the prospect exclaims, panic washing over him. He rushes around the bar toward me, his eyes wide with concern. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did.”
I try to explain, but my tears are flowing too freely, fueled by the disappointment. The drink is wrong, the pickles are wrong, and everything feels wrong.
Just then, the clubhouse doors swing open, boots echoing across the floor. The church meeting must have finally ended. Ryan steps out first, and the moment his eyes land on me sobbing at the bar, he stops dead in his tracks.
His gaze snaps to the prospect standing beside me. “What the fuck did you do?”
The prospect throws his hands up defensively. “I swear I didn’t mean to!”
Ryan crosses the room in three long strides, crouching down in front of me. One big hand instinctively rests on my stomach, and I feel the boys kick, as if they recognize their dad’s presence.
“Baby,” he murmurs softly, concern etched into his features.
His other hand cups my cheek, and I try to answer, but I’m still crying too hard to form coherent words. Instead, I slap the prospect lightly in the chest, pointing dramatically at Ryan.
The prospect clears his throat, stepping in to help. “She wants a fountain Diet Coke with Grillo’s dill pickle chips in it.”
The room falls silent, the weight of my craving hanging in the air.
“…In it?” someone mutters, disbelief evident in their voice.
Several bikers visibly grimace at the thought.
Ryan slowly turns his gaze back to me, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Is that what my babies want?”
I nod desperately, more tears spilling down my cheeks. “Yes.”
Ryan drags a hand down his beard, looking like he’s questioning every life decision that led him to this moment. Then he turns his attention back to the prospect. “You heard her.”
The prospect nods frantically, determination flooding his features. “Yes, sir.”
Without hesitation, Ryan tosses him a set of keys. “Take the truck.”
The kid bolts out the door like his life depends on it, and I can’t help but chuckle through my tears.
Ryan pulls me into his arms, one hand cradling my massive stomach while the other rubs slow circles on my back. “You alright now?” he murmurs, his voice soothing.
“I just really wanted it,” I confess, my voice still shaky.
“I know,” he replies, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of my head. “These boys already got you wrapped around their fingers.”
“They’re evil,” I quip, managing a weak smile.
Ryan laughs softly, and then I shift slightly on the stool, trying to ease the pressure on my lower back.
“Go sit outside,” he suggests gently. “Get some air.”
“That actually sounds amazing,” I agree, feeling a wave of relief wash over me.
He helps me off the stool carefully, as if I’m made of glass—because apparently, I’m not allowed to do anything by myself anymore.
I waddle toward the front porch while the guys drift back into the clubhouse, their voices fading behind me. The afternoon sun warms my skin as I lower myself onto one of the wooden benches, letting out a long, contented sigh.
The babies kick again, and I rub my stomach slowly, feeling a mix of joy and frustration. “You two are lucky your dad loves you,” I mutter, gazing out at the peaceful scene before me.
A soft breeze rustles through the trees surrounding the property, and for a moment, everything feels serene—quiet, safe.
Then something shifts in the tree line. At first, I think it’s a deer or maybe one of the club dogs. But the movement is wrong—uneven, unsteady. I squint toward the woods, my heart racing as my stomach drops.
A woman stumbles out of the trees. Barefoot, dirty, and covered in blood.
My heart jumps into my throat. “Oh my God—”
She takes two more steps before collapsing forward onto the grass.
I scream, panic exploding within me.
The clubhouse doors burst open instantly, boots pounding across the porch.
“What happened?” Ryan shouts, urgency lacing his voice.
But someone else gets there first—Diesel. He moves faster than everyone, reaching the woman just before she hits the ground. His arms wrap around her, lowering her carefully to the grass.
“What the hell…” he mutters, his brows furrowed in confusion.
Ryan crouches beside them, his expression shifting from concern to determination. “Doc!” someone yells, the urgency palpable in the air.
The woman’s eyes flutter weakly, her lips moving in a struggle. Diesel leans closer, trying to catch her words. “What did you say?”
Her voice is barely a whisper, but it carries a weight of desperation. “...help me.”
Then her eyes roll back, and she goes completely limp in his arms.
The entire yard goes silent, the gravity of the moment settling like a heavy fog.
Ryan looks at Diesel, who stares down at the unconscious woman, his expression a mix of bewilderment and concern. Then Ryan exhales slowly, his voice low but firm.
“Well,” he mutters, breaking the stillness. “Looks like the next problem just found us.”