Page 114 of Claimed By the Bikers
“And today?”
“Today I can barely keep my eyes open.”
Atlas closes the book, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. “Sleep. We’ll handle everything else.”
But sleep doesn’t come easily. Connor and Caleb have decided this is the perfect time for gymnastics, rolling and kicking with enough force to make my entire belly shift and ripple. Every position becomes uncomfortable within minutes, and the constant pressure on my bladder means multiple trips to the bathroom throughout the night.
Around two in the morning, I feel the first real contraction.
Not the practice contractions I’ve been having for weeks, but a wave of pain that starts in my lower back and wraps around my entire abdomen like a steel band tightening around my body.
I breathe through it, counting seconds until it passes. Probably false labor. First-time mothers often experience days of false starts before real labor begins.
The second contraction hits twenty minutes later, stronger and longer than the first.
The third comes fifteen minutes after that.
By the fourth contraction, I know this isn’t practice.
“Atlas.” I shake his shoulder gently. “I think it’s time.”
He’s awake instantly, years of military training allowing him to transition from sleep to full alertness within seconds. “Contractions?”
“Real ones. Started about an hour ago.”
“How far apart?”
“Fifteen minutes now, but they’re getting closer.”
He reaches for his phone, probably calling Doc Morrison to report the situation. Beside him, Garrett stirs at the sound of voices.
“What’s happening?” he mumbles, still half-asleep.
“Babies are coming.”
That gets his attention. He sits up immediately, running his hands through his hair as he processes the situation. “Now? Tonight?”
“Babies come when they’re ready,” I tell him, repeating Mrs. Henderson’s words from earlier today. “Apparently, Connor and Caleb are ready.”
Silas appears in the doorway, drawn by our voices. “Labor?”
“Labor.”
“Merde. I need to get the hospital bag.”
“Silas, the bag’s been packed for three weeks. It’s by the front door.”
“Right. Of course.” But he disappears anyway, probably needing movement to manage his anxiety.
Another contraction builds, stronger than the previous ones, and I grip Atlas’s hand as the pain peaks. “Definitely real labor.”
“Doc Morrison’s meeting us at the clinic. Says first babies usually take their time, so we don’t need to panic.”
“Who’s panicking?”
Garrett appears with clothes—soft pants and a loose shirt that will accommodate my belly during the drive to town. “Can you walk?”
“I’m pregnant, not paralyzed.”
