10. GAVIN
GAVIN
Her body goes slack in my arms.
"Georgie?" My voice cracks on her name. "Baby girl, stay with me."
Nothing. Her head lolls against my shoulder, eyes closed, face pale as death. Panic claws up my throat—primal, vicious, unlike anything I've felt in twenty years. Not since my old man put a gun in my hand and told me to prove I could kill or be killed.
This is worse. So much fucking worse.
I'm already moving, kicking through the warehouse doors into the night. Jones has the car running, door open before I reach it. He doesn't ask questions, doesn't waste my time with words. Just throws the car into gear the second I'm inside with Georgie cradled against my chest.
"Nearest hospital. Now."
"On it, boss."
The city blurs past the windows. Streetlights streak overhead in rapid succession.
My fingers find the pulse point at her throat—there, steady and strong despite her unconscious state.
That should comfort me. It doesn't. Each second that passes with her eyes still closed feels like sandpaper against raw nerves.
Jones floors it. The engine roars, and the world becomes a rush of color and sound outside our little bubble.
Inside, there's only Georgie's shallow breathing and the thundering of my own pulse in my ears.
My hand cups her face, thumb stroking across her cheekbone. Her skin feels too cold, too clammy.
What was she trying to tell me? Back in the warehouse, right before she collapsed, she said it was important. Needed to say something. The desperation in her eyes haunts me now—that urgent need to communicate bleeding through even as shock tried to drag her under.
Doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting her help, making sure she's okay, keeping her safe like I promised.
Failed her once tonight. Let those fuckers grab her right under my nose while I was busy playing kingpin in another part of the city.
Craig's involvement comes back to me in flashes—security footage Jones showed me of that little shit talking to unknown men outside campus, accepting cash, pointing out Georgie's schedule.
He sang like a canary once we had him. Gave up Big Mike's location, the whole operation, everything.
The hospital materializes ahead—bright lights cutting through darkness, the emergency entrance lit up like salvation. Jones doesn't even park properly, just pulls up to the doors and kills the engine.
I'm out before the car fully stops.
"Help! I need help!" The automatic doors slide open. A nurse looks up from her station, eyes widening as I stride in with Georgie unconscious in my arms. "She collapsed. She's not waking up."
"What happened?" The nurse rushes around the counter, already signaling for backup.
"She was kidnapped. Tied up for hours. She seemed okay at first, then she just—" The words catch in my throat. "She fainted."
More staff appear from nowhere, a gurney materializing between one heartbeat and the next. They try to take her from me, but my arms lock tighter.
"Sir, we need to examine her." The nurse's voice remains calm, professional. Like she deals with violent criminals having breakdowns in her ER every night. "You have to let us help her."
Logic penetrates the haze. I lower Georgie onto the gurney, my hands shaking as they smooth her hair back from her face one last time. They wheel her away immediately, and I follow. Nobody tries to stop me.
"Was she assaulted?" A doctor intercepts us outside an examination room, already pulling on gloves. Young guy, maybe early thirties, competent eyes. "Did they hurt her?"
"No. I got there before—" My jaw clenches hard enough to hurt. "She wasn't assaulted. But she was restrained. Zip ties on her wrists and ankles."
He nods, pushing through the door. "Wait here. We'll take care of her."
The door closes in my face.
I stand there, staring at white paint and small rectangular window, watching shadows move on the other side of frosted glass. Medical staff swarm around her, voices muffled but urgent. Someone hooks up monitors. The steady beep of machinery cuts through the silence.
Jones appears at my elbow. "She'll be okay."
"You don't know that."
"Boss—"
"Don't." My hands curl into fists. Blood still stains my knuckles—Big Mike's blood, his men's blood.
Should've made them suffer longer. Should've drawn it out, made them understand exactly what they'd done by touching her.
But rage had taken over, cold and efficient.
Each bullet found its mark before they even understood death was coming.
Not enough. Still not fucking enough for daring to put their hands on what's mine.
Minutes crawl past. Could be ten, could be forty. Time loses meaning in this fluorescent-lit hallway with its antiseptic smell and distant sounds of other emergencies. Jones stands guard, silent sentinel, giving me space to slowly lose my mind.
The door finally opens. The doctor emerges, pulling off his gloves. His expression gives nothing away.
"She's stable." He holds up a hand before I can push past him. "Physically, she's fine. Some minor bruising on her wrists and ankles from the restraints, but nothing serious. No signs of assault or trauma beyond that."
Relief hits like a tidal wave, threatening to buckle my knees. "Then why did she faint?"
"Her blood pressure dropped, likely from stress and shock combined with another factor." He pauses, studying my face. "Are you family?"
"Husband." The lie comes automatically, smooth as silk despite never having told it before. Feels less like deception and more like truth—or at least a truth that should exist. "What factor?"
His expression shifts, something almost warm entering those clinical eyes. "Congratulations. She's pregnant. About three months along based on preliminary estimates."
The world tilts sideways.
"What?"
"Your wife is pregnant. That's likely why she fainted—pregnancy can cause drops in blood pressure, especially under extreme stress.
Combined with the trauma of the kidnapping...
" He shakes his head. "But both mother and baby are fine.
All vitals look good. We'll keep her overnight for observation, but I expect a full recovery. "
Pregnant. Georgie's pregnant. With my baby.
The words she'd tried to tell me in the warehouse come rushing back—her urgency, her desperation to share something important, the way her hands had moved to her stomach like protection, like instinct.
She knew. She knew and was trying to tell me before she passed out.
"Can I see her?" My voice sounds strange, distant.
"She's still unconscious, but yes. Room 304, third floor." The doctor moves aside, giving me clear passage. "A nurse will be checking on her regularly throughout the night."
I'm walking before he finishes speaking, Jones falling into step behind me. The elevator ride takes forever. Third floor, turn left, follow the numbers. 304 appears at the end of the hall, door slightly ajar.
She's so small in the hospital bed. Machines flank her on both sides, monitors displaying lines and numbers that mean nothing to me beyond their steady rhythm.
An IV runs from her arm, fluids dripping in measured beats.
Someone's cleaned her up—the dirt and grime from the warehouse floor scrubbed away, revealing pale skin and those freckles scattered across her nose.
Pregnant. The thought circles on repeat, refusing to fully land. My baby. Our baby.
Something massive shifts in my chest, rearranging organs and bones to make room for this new reality.
I've built an empire on violence and fear, made grown men piss themselves with a single look, eliminated threats without hesitation or remorse.
But this—this tiny life growing inside Georgie—terrifies me more than any enemy I've ever faced.
What if I fuck it up? What if whatever darkness lives inside me poisons everything good she brings? She deserves better than a man with blood permanently staining his hands, than a father whose business involves death and destruction.
But the alternative—letting her go, watching from the shadows as she builds a life without me—that's not an option.
Not anymore. Maybe never was, from the moment I saw her in that first warehouse months ago, frightened but still defiant.
Something had clicked into place then, ancient and immutable as gravity.
Mine. She's mine, and I'm keeping her.
I pull a chair close to the bed, sinking into it. My hand finds hers, careful of the IV, and threads our fingers together. Her skin feels warmer now, color returning to her cheeks.
"You better wake up soon, baby girl." The words come out rough, scraped raw by everything this night has put me through. "Need to hear you say it. Need to hear what you were trying to tell me."
Silence answers. Just the steady beep of monitors and the quiet hum of machinery keeping watch.
Jones hovers in the doorway. "I'll be outside if you need anything."
"Clear the third floor. No visitors except medical staff, and I want IDs checked on every single person who comes near this room."
"Already done. Got men posted at both ends of the hall and the elevator."
That's why he's my second. "Good. Now disappear unless there's a problem."
The door clicks shut, leaving us alone. Hospital sounds filter through—distant conversations, rolling carts, the occasional alarm from another room. But here, in this small space, there's only us and the truth growing inside her.
Hours pass. Nurses come and go, checking vitals, adjusting machines, making notes on charts. Each time, I watch them with hawk eyes, cataloging every movement, every action. They're careful, professional. Nobody gets careless around the man radiating violence from the visitor's chair.
Dawn creeps through the window, pale gray light pushing back shadows. My body aches from sitting motionless all night, but I don't move. Can't move. Not until she wakes up, not until I see those blue eyes open and confirm she's really okay.
Finally, as morning sun angles through the blinds, her fingers twitch in mine.