Chapter One
WHO’S CUTTING ONIONS IN THIS BITCH?
HENRY
“Insufferable at best, but lately he’s been downright unhinged. Like, definitely a few more screws loose.”
I sigh and take a long pull from the beer I’ve been nursing for the past thirty minutes while helping man the grill. “Can you blame him?”
“Well,” my baby brother says with a shrug, “as long as Evie keeps distracting with that smoking body, we might actually survive him until the baby gets here.”
“Talk about my wife like that again and I’ll smoke your ass.”
I’m already laughing when my brother chokes on his own breath, clutching his chest like he’s been shot. He tips backward off his chair, landing hard as he stares up at the stone-cold glare of our middle brother—drink in hand now flying through the air and spilling down the front of his shirt.
“Mama should have collared you at birth, you big bitch.”
Mercy isn’t exactly wrong—Maddox is freakishly light on his feet, always moving like some oversized house cat.
I’m pretty sure that’s about 90 percent of why Maddox is so damn good in the ring.
The other ten? That’s just pure, unfiltered malevolence he was born with, stitched into his bones and pulsing under his skin.
Don’t get me wrong—I love both my brothers.
But anyone who says Maddox Wilder doesn’t give them chills is either lying or hasn’t spent enough time around him.
He’s got this quiet, dangerous energy that creeps up your spine and settles in your bones.
But for every ounce of darkness in him, there’s just as much love.
Real, fierce, loyal love, and most of that is because of the bright, beaming light currently parked in the middle of the backyard, surrounded by baby gifts and grinning family—Evie, the sun to his storm.
And right next to her, with that lazy grin playing on her soft face, sits the eye of my storm.
My compass home. My constant chaos, and, without fail, the biggest pain in my ass.
As she glances my way, there’s a fleeting moment where she doesn’t notice me.
I live for that brief instant—before the scowl, before the walls go back up—when her face softens, as if seeing me lightens her world for just the briefest moment.
And then the scowl comes, and every time, it tears my heart to shreds.
I pull my eyes away and I watch as Maddox leans down and hauls Mercy to his feet, casually brushing him off like he didn’t just take a nosedive off the chair.
“I still don’t know what sugar sees in your overgrown ass sometimes,” Mercy grumbles, shaking his head.
Maddox adjusts his glasses, straight-faced. “Must be my charming personality.”
We all crack up at that—because if there’s one word none of us, not even Evie herself, would ever use to describe Maddox Wilder, it’s charming.
“I still can’t believe you're having another baby. I’m so damn proud of you, Maddy.”
Maddox looks at me from the corner of his eye. “Thank you.”
I nod, because I mean it—every word. After our daddy died, I just…
stepped into the role. I took it on myself to be the man of the house.
Look after my brothers. Keep things running.
Pick up the slack so Mama didn’t drown in it.
No one asked me to. Sure as hell not my mama—she never once expected me to carry anything or raise anyone.
These two idiots have made me prouder than I ever thought possible—and more disappointed than I’ll ever admit out loud. But that’s family, isn’t it? A mess of love, frustration, and loyalty you can’t shake even if you tried.
Still as proud as I am of my brother, a quiet ache lingers beneath the pride.
I’ve been the steadfast pillar of this family for so long, holding others up while quietly yearning for something of my own.
I want a home not just to return to, but to belong to—a place alive with the sound of children’s laughter echoing down the halls, and the comfort of arms waiting to gather me close at the end of a long day.
A while later, after we’ve devoured the steaks and polished off the last of the beer, we turn our attention to Aunt Joe and Vic. They are in the middle of an epic argument over some ridiculous baby game that involves drinking from a bottle.
Vic, his chest puffed out like the damn sailor he is, insists there is no way in hell he is sucking from anything. Aunt Joe, sharp as ever, shoots back that only a man with a complex would say something like that.
That’s when the chaos hit its peak.
Vic snatches the bottle from her hands, bites the nipple clean off with a growl, and spits it at her feet like a challenge. Then, without missing a beat, he chugs the juice, tosses the bottle aside, and declares, “Fucking winner.”
The backyard explodes with laughter.
Once we all calm down Evie calls for our attention.
“Thank you all for coming,” Evie says, her voice warm but steady, rising above the hum of conversation and laughter. She stands in the center of the yard, glowing in that way only she can—barefoot in the grass, one hand resting protectively over her round belly.
“After the whirlwind of the last year,” she continues, her eyes sweeping the crowd, “I’d usually be the first to honor the gig guy’s wishes and keep things low-key…
” Her gaze shifts across the yard, landing on Maddox—shirt rumpled, Charlie perched on his shoulders giggling, and Bash tucked securely under one arm like a football.
It’s the kind of scene that shouldn’t mean much. Just a moment. Just family.
But fuck, it hits me square in the chest.
That ache sneaks in fast and sharp. A punch of longing I wasn’t braced for.
Because last year didn’t just shake us—it split the ground wide open. And seeing them like that, happy and whole, feels like looking through a window at something I can’t quite touch.
My jaw tightens. My ribs pull in. I don’t let it show—or maybe I do— but I feel every inch of it.
“But for this,” she says, rubbing her belly with a smile that’s all mischief and love, “I don’t think I will.”
Before the words are even settled, Lou throws her head back and lets out a loud, piercing whistle.
Maddox flinches, scowls, and keeps walking like he’d rather vanish into the dirt than deal with whatever celebration Evie just roped him into.
We all lose it. Laughter spills across the yard, warm and real.
Evie tosses him a wink, and Maddox mutters something under his breath, that broody storm cloud expression stamped across his face like he’s still trying to figure out what the hell just happened—and absolutely not loving being the center of attention.
He gently sets Charlie down off his shoulders, then lifts Bash and plants him on the ground like he’s made of glass, even though the kid immediately takes off like a loose cannon.
Evie gives the boys a small nod, and in a blink, they’re gone—racing full speed toward the treehouse we built them for their birthday.
Their shouts and laughter echo behind them, but Maddox doesn’t move, just watches them go with that unreadable look on his face, jaw tight, hands flexing at his sides like he’s trying to hold something in—or maybe hold on to something.
I watch as Evie slips her hand into Maddox’s, her fingers gently curling around his like she’s pulling him into the warmth of the moment.
“I know you’re not one for a lot of flair,” she says softly, her voice soothing.
“And I know you despise being the center of attention, but your mama and Aunt Joe worked so hard. They turned our ragtag little backyard into something beautiful.”
And beautiful it is. Fairy lights twinkle across the yard, wrapping trees and draping from the porch like fallen stars. Baby’s breath decorates tables and garlands, giving the space a dreamy, secret garden feel where new beginnings bloom.
Mama has kept Aunt Joe busy since the wedding, unofficially appointing her as co-planner for every Thunder Ridge event—dinners, parties, and now this baby shower.
Not that Aunt Joe minds. Between helping Mama and hanging around The Wild Whisk, she is always on the move—and that’s just how she likes it.
“I also know you’ve been dead set on not knowing the sex of this baby,” Evie says, her voice softer now, like she’s peeling back something delicate and doesn’t want to break it.
She reaches for Maddox’s hand, places it gently on her belly, and just like that, something shifts.
His hand doesn’t move at first. Just rests there, wide and still, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch something so full of hope.
That one quiet gesture does something to me. My chest pulls tight. Like the breath I’ve been holding since last year is suddenly pressing against my ribs, asking to be felt.
Then Mama’s hand finds mine. Strong. Familiar. Her fingers curl around mine and squeeze—not just to comfort me, but to hold me here, in this moment I want to disappear from and hold on to in equal measure.
Evie keeps going. “Not because you’re waiting to find out, but because a small part of you is afraid to finally know…”
God. That lands too close. Because I get it—every damn word.
When you’ve lost things you can’t name, when you’ve had the floor ripped out from under you, knowing something for sure—letting yourself hope—feels like standing on thin ice, listening for cracks.
And my ice?
She’s five foot nine, all attitude and bite, a walking contradiction who kisses like she means it and glares like she doesn’t. A smokeshow with a temper and a mouth that makes me want to start fights and end them the same damn way.
She acts like she hates me. Yet, she never looks away.
And that’s the part that scares me—because if she ever did…I think I’d go right through the ice.
I look at Maddox, and I see the weight of it on his face. The way he’s bracing without moving. Like knowing this baby, really knowing, might be the final undoing or the first real piece of peace.