Page 113 of Claimed By the Bikers
The next stop is the Morrison family—a veteran with PTSD and his wife, who homeschools their four children. They need the specialized medication that keeps him functional, the therapy equipment that helps him sleep without nightmares, and the educational supplies that give their kids opportunities they couldn’t otherwise afford.
By the third stop, my back aches constantly, and my feet have swollen enough that my boots feel tight. But watching a young mother receive the nebulizer that will keep her asthmatic son breathing makes every discomfort worthwhile.
“Home?” Atlas suggests that we finish the last delivery.
“Home sounds wonderful.”
The nursery has been ready for weeks—two cribs positioned so the babies can see each other, mobiles hanging at the perfect height to capture infant attention, shelves lined with books in three languages because Silas insists bilingual children develop stronger cognitive abilities.
“Tomorrow I’ll finish the matching dresser,” Garrett says, running his hand along the smooth wood of Connor’s crib. “And the rocking chair should be ready by the weekend.”
“You’ve built them an entire furniture store.”
“They deserve the best of everything.”
“They deserve parents who love them unconditionally. The furniture is just a bonus.”
Atlas appears with the evening medication I’ve been taking to prevent early labor—iron supplements, prenatal vitamins, and the mild sedative that helps me sleep despite the constant movement in my belly.
“Doc Morrison called. Wants to see you tomorrow for the final check before delivery.”
“What if he says I need to be induced?”
“Then we’ll support whatever decision is safest for you and the babies.”
“What if there are complications?”
“There won’t be,” Silas says with absolute conviction. “Connor and Caleb are strong, healthy boys who are eager to meet their fathers.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Bien sûr, I know. Just like I know Connor will be the quiet one and Caleb will be the troublemaker.”
“Based on what evidence?”
“Based on the way they move. Connor settles when you’re calm. Caleb kicks whenever there’s excitement.”
I consider this, feeling the subtle difference in their movements throughout the day. One does seem more responsive to external stimulation while the other maintains a steadier rhythm.
Garrett brings dinner—soup and bread that won’t upset my increasingly sensitive stomach. Simple food that tastes incredible when prepared with love and served by men who monitor every bite to ensure proper nutrition.
“Early night?” Atlas suggests when I finish eating.
“Early night sounds good.”
The bedtime routine has evolved to accommodate my changing body. Garrett arranges pillows to support my back and stomach. Silas massages my swollen feet until the circulation improves. Atlas reads aloud from the pregnancy books that predict what to expect during labor and delivery.
“Chapter twelve: Signs of impending labor,” he begins, settling into the chair beside our bed. “Nesting instincts, increased Braxton Hicks contractions, dropping of the baby or babies into the pelvis…”
“I definitely dropped last week. Can barely breathe when I’m sitting upright.”
“Lightning. That’s the technical term for dropping.”
“Sounds more pleasant than it feels.”
“Loss of mucus plug, increased vaginal discharge, diarrhea or nausea, burst of energy followed by extreme fatigue…”
“Had the energy burst yesterday. Organized every closet in the house.”
