Chapter Ten
Diana
I groaned and rolled over in bed to see August sleeping peacefully. He was so handsome, so beautiful, and he had the gentlest heart. Everything about him screamed perfection, and he was exactly what I wanted. But like most things in my life, sometimes I didn’t always get what I wanted.
August and I had only been seeing each other for a few short months, and in that time, he’d become my world.
My happiness. And while I gave him everything I could, I still held a small part of myself back.
Not because I didn’t trust him, but because once he learned who I truly was, he wouldn’t want anything to do with me.
There were rules, even in the Biker Federation, that couldn’t be broken, and the longer I ignored the truth, the harder it would be to walk away.
Even I knew nothing lasted forever, no matter how much I wanted it to.
Yet, I wanted so much to ignore the world, forget about rules, the clubs, the truth, and never leave this room.
As the morning sunlight crept along the edge of the curtains, painting golden stripes over the tangled sheets, a quiet dread pressed against my ribs.
I watched August’s chest rise and fall with each tranquil breath, envying his peace.
My secrets pulsed beneath my skin, a rhythm only I could hear—a distant thundercloud on this otherwise perfect dawn.
Was it wrong to want him? To crave the warmth of his arms and the promise of his laughter?
I tried to memorize the shape of his sleeping silhouette, as if doing so could preserve this fragile happiness against the weight of truths I dared not speak.
The space between us felt impossibly close and yet filled with everything I hadn’t told him.
I wondered, not for the first time, how long love could survive in the shadows of things unspoken. In the hush of our shared mornings, hope and fear danced quietly, waiting for the day when I’d have to choose which one I’d let win.
Slowly sitting up in bed, I combed my fingers through my hair when I heard him whisper, “You’re thinking too hard. I can hear you.” I looked over at him to find him staring at me when he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Never play poker, Diana. Your face gives everything away,” he groaned, stretching his arms in the air before placing them behind his head. “Just tell me.”
I hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t betray me. “I guess I’m just... thinking about how good this is,” I offered, my voice softer than I intended. “How easy it is to get used to something good.”
August smiled, crooked and radiant. “Then don’t fight it,” he said simply, his tone so sure it almost made me believe. I wanted to reach for him, to let that certainty anchor me, but my hands remained clasped in my lap.
“It’s not that simple,” I whispered, unable to meet his gaze. “Life doesn’t always let you keep what you want.”
He sat up and the covers fell away, exposing the tattoos that mapped his skin—the stories he wore in ink, open and honest, unlike mine. “You know,” he said, drawing me back to him, “I don’t care what anyone else wants. You’re mine. From the first moment I saw you, I knew you belonged to me.”
For a moment, the world outside faded, and the only truth was the warmth between us.
I let myself drift closer, pressing my forehead against his, closing my eyes to the chaos that waited beyond our door.
If I could hold on to this—this now—even for just one heartbeat longer, I’d be brave enough to face whatever came next.
“I love you,” I replied, finally letting myself breathe.
August pulled me into his arms, and the morning settled around us in a hush, as if promising that sometimes, a single moment of happiness could last a lifetime.
A few hours later, we were lounging on the couch watching a documentary on the television when August asked, “Babe?”
“Hmmm.”
“Is this a tattoo of Asclepius, the God of Medicine?”
Not realizing what he was asking, I nodded. “It is. My family is big on mythology.”
August’s fingers traced the lines of the tattoo with gentle reverence, as if he could read the myth stitched beneath my skin. “Why him and not Diana, the goddess of the hunt?” he asked softly, his thumb pausing over the curve of the snake.
I smiled, a little shy, a little proud. “It’s for my favorite uncle. When I was little, he would tell me I could do anything, be anything I wanted to be. That my strength came from within and to never be afraid to go after what I wanted.”
August leaned in, brushing his lips against my shoulder, warm and grounding. “He was right.”
I let the words settle, quiet and true. The documentary murmured on in the background, all static and history, but I was caught up in the present—his touch, his voice, the subtle certainty that came with being seen.
After a while, I nestled closer, intertwining my fingers with his. “Do any of yours have stories?” I asked, glancing at the constellations and wildflowers inked across his arm.
He grinned, a secret flickering in his eyes. “Every single one,” he replied. “But you’ll have to earn them, one story at a time.”
“Challenge accepted,” I whispered, and in that small, ordinary moment, I realized I wanted a thousand more moments just like this—with him, and the quiet promise of forever unfolding between us.
Reaching for his hand, I traced my index finger along his forearm where a wicked-looking knife stabbed the heart of the word Traitor .
Wrapped around the name was a vine with roses, and wickedly sharp thorns cut into the word, almost as if the rose vine itself was causing more damage than the knife.
For some reason, this particular tattoo always intrigued me, called to me on some level.
I couldn’t explain it, but out of all his tattoos, this one was my favorite. “Tell me about this one.”
August’s breath caught—just the faintest hitch that might have gone unnoticed if I hadn’t been listening for it.
His gaze dropped to where my finger lingered, a shadow darting behind his smile.
For a moment, I wondered if I’d asked too much, pried a little too close to something tender and sharp beneath his skin.
He exhaled, his thumb brushing slow circles against my palm.
“That one...” He hesitated, searching for the right words in the dust motes drifting through the lamplight.
“It’s a bit of a long story. It’s a reminder that not everyone can be trusted.
Someone I thought would always be on my side.
” His voice was soft, careful, as if each word was a shard picked up and polished before setting it down between us.
“But sometimes, the people you trust the most become the ones who cut you deepest.”
I traced the curves and thorns again, gentler now. “Do the roses mean something?”
He nodded, lips quirking with a bittersweet tilt.
“Roses for what was beautiful. Thorns for what cut. I guess it’s a way of remembering that even the best things can turn, and that sometimes you have to let old things bleed out to make room for new growth.
” His eyes met mine, earnest and open, and I felt the trust in that offering, the courage it took to let me see a hidden piece of his heart.
I squeezed his hand, anchoring him to the moment. “Thank you for telling me,” I murmured. “I know that wasn’t easy.”
A small, grateful smile flickered across his lips. “With you, it’s easier.” The silence pooled around us, not awkward but full—with truth, with acceptance, with the understanding that our stories, no matter how jagged, could twine together like vines in the sun.
And as I pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of his wrist, I realized that sometimes the bravest thing of all is letting someone trace the map of your scars and still believing they’ll stay.
Needing to use the bathroom, I got up from the couch; my hand went instantly to my mouth as I made a mad dash for the bathroom.
Dropping to my knees, I had barely opened the lid before I emptied my stomach of all its contents.
August rushed in after me, quickly turning on the water.
Then, before I knew it, he was holding a cold washcloth to the back of my neck.
“Something you ate?”
Leaning against the toilet, I groaned. “I’m not sure.”
“Could you be pregnant?”
I smirked at that. “Why is it that’s the first thing men always ask when a woman throws up?”
August grinned. “Are you saying I’m not the first man to ask you that question?”
Leaning my head back against the bathroom wall, I closed my eyes and sighed. “No, you are the first.”
“I better be,” he grumbled under his breath before adding, “Maybe you should take a test to be sure? When was your last period?”
Frowning, I did the math quickly in my head and whispered, “Two weeks before I met your parents.”
“Baby, that was at the beginning of July. It’s August 12 th .”
Looking up at him, I said, “Maybe you should go get that test.”
An hour later, August and I stood in the bathroom staring at five pregnancy tests. All saying the exact same thing.
I was pregnant.
It had been a little over a week since we both learned the truth, and waiting in the obstetrician’s office August found for me, I sat nervously fidgeting with my hands.
“What if the tests were wrong?”
August chuckled as he flipped through a magazine. “All five of them?”
“You know what I mean,” I snipped.
August only smiled, setting the magazine down before he reached for my hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles over my knuckles. “We’ll know for sure in a few minutes,” he said gently, his tone more soothing than I’d ever heard it.
A nurse called my name at last. My world seemed to narrow to a pinprick as August squeezed my hand, and we followed her into a pale blue room smelling faintly of antiseptic and powder.
The doctor, warm but efficient, asked the usual questions and sent me for a quick test, promising results before we left.
When she returned, her smile was gentle and reassuring. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’re definitely pregnant.”
I looked at August, whose grin lit up his entire face. He pulled me in for a hug, burying his face in my hair. “We’re having a baby,” he whispered, as if saying it aloud would break the spell.
In the days, weeks, and months that followed, we found ourselves in a world of secret smiles and whispered plans, as we giddily prepared for our new reality.
We wandered the baby aisles of department stores, holding up impossibly tiny onesies and laughing until our sides ached at the idea of August changing diapers.
We spent entire afternoons debating the merits of yellow versus green for the nursery, finally settling on a soft, sunlit gold that made the room glow with promise.
August insisted on assembling the crib himself, refusing to let me so much as lift the instruction manual. I watched from the doorway, heart full, as he wrestled with wooden slats and Allen wrenches, finally emerging triumphant and only slightly sweaty.
Some nights, I’d wake to find him tracing gentle circles over my growing belly, already talking to the life growing inside me. And every night, before sleep claimed us, he’d murmur, “I can’t wait to meet you.”
I should have known that nothing good lasts forever.