Page 92 of Dash

Because I’m not taking chances—not with her and not with our child.

I need to hear from someone that the baby I didn’t even know existed until five fucking minutes ago is still alive inside her.

TWENTY-FOUR

DAYNA

I casta sidelong glance at Dash, my heart pounding. His hand has been resting on my belly from the moment we got in the van, like he’s claiming and protecting us in the same beat.

Riot drives, one hand on the wheel, the other sitting on the gear stick. He hasn’t said anything and I’m too tired to try.

My stomach feels tight and heavy from puking, from fear, from all the emotions still clawing at me. I also have a headache, and I have something I didn’t expect.

Hope.

A future laid out before me that didn’t seem possible this morning.

“You okay?” His soft question burns my throat.

“Yeah.”

He lets go of my belly and seizes my chin. “Dayna.”

His eyes are sharp, his words too, but I see the weight of care behind them.

“I’m still nauseous,” I admit.

“Do you want me to open the window?”

My lips twitch. “Sure. I’ll stick my head out like a Labrador.”

His thumb strokes over the apple of my cheek. “I’ll get you a collar.”

I poke his side, but my heart feels full. It feels easy with him.

“You two are so fucking sweet, it’s making me feel sick.”

I glance at Riot, letting out a laugh, one that doesn’t feel trapped in my chest for a change.

“Please. I have to watch you and Ivy practically dry humping each other every time I’m in your presence. You can cope with this.”

Riot drops us off outside the front of the hospital. He asks Dash if he wants him to stay. Surprisingly, he declines.

It feels like it takes forever to get seen. I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open, and he doesn’t comment when I lean my head against his shoulder and let myself drift. When he shakes me awake, my back is throbbing, and I’m pretty sure I’ve fused with the plastic chair.

Dash takes control of everything. It feels amazing to have someone take care of me, to carry the mental load.

The cubicle we’re led to is similar to the one he was in when he was hurt. Small, with a curtain separating it from the rest of the unit and equipment stuffed into every available space.

Dash guides me onto a narrow trolley, adjusting the pillows behind me until I’m comfortable, and then he pulls a chair up to the side of the bed. One hand slips into mine, the other rests over our baby. The solid weight of his palm there eases the swirling panic within me.

“You still feel sick?”

“I’m more tired than anything else.” I close my eyes for a second, the exhaustion making it hard to focus. “We’re probably just wasting everyone’s time. I’m sure the baby’s fine.”

“Then they’ll tell us that.”

I drop my hand on top of his, both of us holding the baby beneath his palm.

---