Chapter 14
fourteen
. . .
Wynter
Three months after our second wedding—a surprisingly beautiful ceremony held at sunset on the plateau overlooking the desert, with the entire club in attendance—I barely recognize my life anymore.
The small-town librarian has fully transformed into the president's wife, comfortable among leather-clad bikers and the constant rumble of motorcycles.
I've made our quarters into a true home, planted a garden with Diesel's help, even started a small lending library for the club members (turns out tough guys have a soft spot for thrillers and, hilariously, romance novels).
I've found my place in this strange, dangerous world—a place where I'm respected, protected, and loved more fiercely than I ever thought possible.
But now, staring at the calendar on my phone, I realize everything is about to change again.
Six weeks late. My period has never been irregular—even the stress of being kidnapped (or husband-napped, as I sometimes joke) by Vance didn't throw off my cycle.
But now, six weeks of nothing, and other signs I've been trying to ignore: the tenderness in my breasts, the waves of nausea in the mornings, the bone-deep fatigue that hits me by mid-afternoon.
I'm pregnant. I have to be.
The thought sends a complicated mix of emotions surging through me. Fear, yes—fear of the unknown, of bringing a child into this dangerous world. But also a wild, unexpected joy that takes my breath away. A baby. Vance's baby. The physical manifestation of the bond between us.
Vance is away for the day, handling some club business with Blade.
The perfect opportunity to confirm what my body is already telling me.
I drive into the nearest town, a small desert outpost thirty minutes from the compound, and buy three different pregnancy tests.
The clerk's knowing smile makes me blush—clearly, women only buy multiple brands when they're hoping for a specific result.
Back in our bathroom, I follow the instructions with trembling hands, then set the tests on the counter and pace our bedroom while waiting for the results. Three minutes have never felt so long.
When the timer on my phone chimes, I force myself back into the bathroom, heart racing. All three tests display the same result: pregnant. Definitely, undeniably pregnant.
I sink down onto the edge of the bathtub, hands covering my stomach where our child is growing. Tears spring to my eyes—happy ones, though mixed with a healthy dose of terror. I'm going to be a mother. The president's wife is going to be a mother.
And Vance…how will Vance react? He's talked about breeding me constantly, his filthy whispers about putting a baby in me driving us both wild in our most intimate moments. But fantasy and reality are different things. Will he be happy? Scared? Will this change the dynamic between us?
I spend the rest of the day alternating between giddy excitement and nervous anticipation, planning and discarding different ways to tell him.
By the time I hear his motorcycle rumbling up to our quarters in the early evening, I've settled on simple honesty—no elaborate reveal, just the truth of what's happening inside me.
He walks through the door looking tired but satisfied, whatever club business he handled clearly resolved to his liking. His face lights up when he sees me, as it always does—this consistent miracle that never fails to warm me from the inside out.
"Baby doll," he greets me, crossing the room in three long strides to gather me against his chest. "Miss me?"
"Always," I reply, breathing in his scent—leather and engine oil and something uniquely him. "How was your day?"
"Better now." He kisses me, then pulls back, studying my face. "Something's different. What's going on?"
I can never hide anything from him—he reads me too well, notices the smallest shifts in my mood or expression. Now or never.
"I have something to tell you," I say, taking his massive hand and guiding it to rest on my still-flat stomach. "Something important."
His brow furrows in confusion for a moment, then his eyes widen as understanding dawns. "Wynter," he breathes, voice suddenly hoarse. "Are you...?"
I nod, tears welling up again. "I'm pregnant. We're having a baby."
For a moment, he goes completely still, his hand a warm weight against my abdomen. Then, to my shock, his eyes fill with tears—the first I've ever seen from this mountain of a man who faces violence and death without flinching.
"A baby," he whispers, dropping to his knees before me, both hands now cradling my stomach like it's made of the most precious glass. "My baby. Inside you."
The reverence in his voice, the naked vulnerability on his face—it undoes me completely. I sink my fingers into his short hair as he presses his forehead against my stomach, his shoulders shaking with emotion.
"Are you happy?" I ask softly, needing to hear it.
He looks up at me, eyes shining with tears and something fiercer, more primitive. "Happy doesn't begin to cover it," he says, voice rough with feeling. "You've given me everything, baby doll. Everything I never thought I deserved."
He rises to his feet and lifts me as if I weigh nothing, carrying me to our bed with unexpected gentleness. As he lays me down, his hands tremble slightly—this man of violence and power, undone by the news of new life.
"Need to be inside you," he murmurs, his usual demanding tone replaced by something almost reverent. "Need to feel you."
He undresses me slowly, with none of his usual urgency, treating me like something infinitely precious.
Each newly revealed inch of skin gets his tender attention—kisses, caresses, worship.
When I'm fully naked, he spends long moments just looking at me, his gaze lingering on my stomach where no changes are yet visible.
"Beautiful," he whispers, shedding his own clothes with less ceremony. "So fucking beautiful."
When he joins me on the bed, he's careful, positioning himself above me with his weight on his forearms, treating me like I might break. I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him closer.
"I'm not fragile," I remind him softly. "I'm still me."
"You're more," he counters, one large hand sliding between us to ensure I'm ready for him. Finding me already wet, he positions himself at my entrance. "You're everything."
He pushes inside with exquisite slowness, both of us sighing at the familiar joining that somehow feels new in the context of our shared knowledge. He moves with careful restraint, deep and thorough but without his usual fierce intensity.
"Feel that?" he murmurs, grinding against me in a way that hits all the right spots. "Feel how perfect we are together? How right?"
I can only nod, words beyond me as pleasure builds with each measured thrust. His hand cradles my face, thumb brushing over my lower lip, eyes never leaving mine.
"My wife," he says with wonder. "Carrying my child."
The tenderness in his voice, the love in his eyes—it pushes me toward the edge faster than his usual dominant demands. When his hand slides between us to circle my clit, I come apart with a soft cry, inner walls pulsing around him.
"That's it," he praises, pace increasing slightly as his own release approaches. "So good for me. So perfect."
As his thrusts become more erratic, his control slipping, the familiar words begin to flow—but transformed now from fantasy to reality.
"My little girl," he groans, forehead pressed to mine. "Carrying Daddy's baby. So fucking perfect."
He comes with a guttural sound, emptying himself inside me where our child is already growing. Afterward, he gathers me close against his chest, one hand protectively splayed across my stomach.
"I'm going to keep you both so safe," he vows, voice thick with emotion. "Nothing will ever touch either of you."
I believe him. This man who fought his way through life, who kills without hesitation to protect what's his, will move heaven and earth to keep our child safe.
"What are you thinking?" he asks, fingers tracing patterns on my skin.
"That our baby is going to have the most terrifying, protective father on the planet," I say with a small smile. "Poor kid's future dates don't stand a chance."
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath my ear. "Damn right. Especially if it's a girl."
"Boy or girl, this child is going to be so loved," I murmur, placing my hand over his on my stomach. "So protected."
"And free," he adds, surprising me. "Free to be whoever they want to be. Not forced into this life if they don't want it."
The insight touches me deeply—this man who claimed me so possessively, so completely, already planning to give our child choices he never had.
"I love you," I tell him, the words inadequate for the emotion swelling in my chest.
"I love you more," he responds, kissing the top of my head. "Both of you."
My fierce, dangerous, tender husband. The father of my child. My forever.