“Yeah,” she says, quiet and unsure, only compounding the anxiety swirling in my gut. I take the handle and push the door open, but I remain on the threshold, hesitant and as nervous as a man could be. She’s sitting on the edge of the tub, hands in her lap, fingers twiddling. She looks up at me, tears pouring. Oh fuck. My fears multiply, but I find it in myself to pull my head out of my arse, disregard my own uncertainties, and go to her. My fierce warrior doesn’t cry. She gets angry, upset, frustrated, but hardly ever cries. I fall to my knees and take her wrists, automatically scanning her arms for damage. The floor for blood. Nothing. It’s a mild consolation.
She joins me on the bathroom floor, on her knees, and slips her arms around my neck, cuddling my clueless form. I want to ask. I don’t want to ask. The unknown is driving me crazy.
And this moment, this scene on the floor in our bathroom, her crying, me comforting her, brings back a whole load of memories that I really don’t want to remember. If she tells me anything like what she told me that day, if any man has touched her, violated her, assumed she’s fair game, I will lose my fucking head. Those thoughts run circles in my mind, along with every serious illness that Doc could have missed, until I’m shaking in her fierce hold.
“Rose, you need to talk before I blow my stack,” I warn, struggling to breathe, let alone talk. I feel her nod, pulling back, sniveling. I take her hair and push it over her shoulders. Take her chin and direct her face to mine. Take her hand, holding it firmly. “What’s going on?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know how this has happened.”
“What?” For the love of God, what’s happened?
She roughly wipes at her face and stands, and I look up at her, blank, lost.
Worried.
She tugs me to my feet, leads me to the vanity, and points.
On a frown bigger than Miami, I look.
And step back.
Away from the pregnancy test.
The pregnancy test with two lines in the window. I’m no expert, but something tells me those two lines are significant, because why the fuck else would she show me a pregnancy test? “Rose, help me out,” I murmur, dazed, my eyes unmoving, my hand flexing in hers. Another step back. My heart begins to thud relentlessly. My breathing is getting too fast to be safe. I peel my eyes away and look at her. My beautiful wife. My fierce, loyal, warrior. And my eyes fall to her stomach. “Are you . . .” I point a limp finger, taking another step back. Her tears seem to have vanished, and in their place, amusement. She finds this funny. She finds me funny. “Please talk.” She needs to confirm what I’m seeing because I think I might be going around the bend. Rose can’t get pregnant.
“I’m pregnant,” she all but whispers.
I gulp. I swallow. I blink my hazy vision clear. The relief I feel is untold. She’s not ill. No one’s touched her. But . . . “How?” I murmur like an idiot.
“Well, you see, your dick—”
“But you couldn’t . . . it was . . . I thought . . .” I can’t even string a fucking sentence together. “What the ever-loving fuck?” I murmur, going to the sink and picking up the test, staring at the lines.
“Danny?”
“I just need . . .” I blow out my cheeks. “Air. I need some air.” I leave the bathroom, my legs far from stable, and take myself to the terrace, flopping down in one of the chairs and lighting up, drawing on my cigarette urgently and exhaling, my foot tapping the ground, my knee jumping fast, my eyes still on the two little lines. This. I never in a million years thought about this. Why would I? She couldn’t carry. Being a father never featured in my plans before I met Rose, and it certainly didn’t after. When she told me every detail of her wretched past, how she lost Daniel, how she was treated, I was too consumed with anger and a need for revenge to consider the possibility that she was wrong. That she could get pregnant again. I took her word for it, put it to bed—after I’d killed the fucker who was the root of Rose’s pain—and got on with a life loving Rose. Just us. Us and Daniel. And after three years of fucking like rabbits with no protection, the thoughts disappeared altogether.
Now? Now I’m staring fatherhood in the face?
I puff my way through my cigarette, savoring every hit of nicotine while willing my mind to untangle and give me some clarity. Some clear thoughts. I have only one.
This changes everything.
It also makes me love her more. Admire her more. Need her more. I’m sitting out here on my own, shellshocked. How does Rose feel about this?
I rise abruptly and turn. She’s standing in the doorway, arms folded, her shoulder resting on the jamb, watching me. A small, amused smile gracing her face. And suddenly, my mind unravels. My thoughts clear. All I can see is her smile. Her happiness. A second chance that I never once dared dream I could give her. A pregnancy without fear. A birth without dread. A life without apprehension.
A baby that no one can take away from her.
“Fucking hell,” I whisper, overcome with every emotion imaginable. And the biggest, most prolific one?
Determination.
Only I can ensure her stability. Her calm. And I will.
I go to her, slipping the stick in my back pocket, and take her face in my palms. Take in every inch of her. Her hair. Her eyes. Her flawless skin. The glow. And I kiss her. It tells her more than I could ever put into words.
“Finish it, Danny,” she says round my mouth, taking my wrists and gripping me hard. She breaks my kiss. The resolve in her eyes matches the intensity of how I feel. “I’m not raising our baby in Miami.”
I nod. Received loud and clear. Whatever she wants. Shit, what the hell is happening? Overwhelmed, I drop to my knees, kneeling before her, worshipping her like the goddess she is, and hug her stomach, feeling her hands stroking through my hair, softly massaging at my scalp. And I stay there for a long, long time, my face pressed into her tummy, my purpose renewed.
I eventually rise, kissing my way to her face. “I have to go.”
She nods, tracing a line down my scar. “I know,” she whispers. “We’ll be here.”
We. We’ll be here. I grin and smother her with my mouth, making her giggle and writhe in my clutches. “Go,” she orders, forcing me away, eager for me to see to business and come back to them. “I need to wash my face before I go downstairs and face everyone.”
I nod and head for the door.
“Danny?”
I look back. She has her index finger held against her lips. Quiet. Keep it quiet. I mirror her and leave, shutting the door quietly behind me. And I stand there, momentarily bewildered again. And suddenly worried. I pull out my phone, dial Doc, and get walking.
He answers quickly as I check my surroundings. I see Tank in the foyer, Fury at the top of the stairs, Beau’s aunt coming out of her room. Too many fucking people in my house. “I’ll call you back,” I say quietly, hanging up just as Beau appears, her hair wet, her signature ripped jeans and baggy shirt ensemble gracing her fit body. She falters, gathering her hair into a ponytail when she sees me, her expression unsure. It would be highly inappropriate, given what she’s been through, to show even an ounce of happiness. Besides, I’m still raging mad with her. “Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again.”