Page 73 of Claimed By the Bikers
Sarah used to get sick exactly like this when she was carrying Katie.
“Come on,” I tell Ember, helping her to her feet. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”
“I don’t need to lie down?—”
“Humor me.”
I guide her through the destroyed restaurant, past overturned tables and bullet-scarred walls, across the yard to our house. She protests weakly the whole way, insisting she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but she doesn’t pull away when I steady her on the steps.
Our bed is unmade, clothes scattered. We have more important things to worry about than housekeeping. I pull back the covers and gesture toward the mattress.
“In.”
“Garrett, I’m not sick?—”
“In.”
She gives me a look that could melt steel, but she climbs into bed anyway, settling back against the pillows with obvious reluctance. “Happy now?”
“Getting there.” I pull the blanket up to her chin, ignoring her eye roll. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”
The kitchen is clustered, but I manage to find what I need. Chamomile tea, the same blend I used to keep stocked for Sarah. Honey to settle her stomach, ginger for the nausea. Simple remedies that probably won’t cure anything but might help her feel a little better.
Sarah would get sick every morning for the first three months, I remember as I wait for the water to boil. It was like clockwork. Green around the gills, swearing she was fine, then spending twenty minutes in the bathroom proving otherwise.
For years after, thinking about Sarah’s pregnancy was like pressing on a wound that never quite healed. The way she glowed even when she was miserable, how she’d rest her hand on her stomach and talk to Katie before she was even showing.
But today, watching Ember fight the same battle Sarah fought, I don’t feel the usual stab of grief.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, I warn myself, pouring hot water over the tea bag.
Could be stress. Could be something she ate. Could be any number of things that aren’t what you think it is.
When I return to the bedroom, Ember’s lying exactly where I left her, staring at the ceiling.
“Feeling any better?” I ask, setting the tea on the nightstand.
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“And I’m making tea anyway.” I sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch but not crowding her. “Chamomile and ginger. Good for settling stomachs.”
“I don’t have an upset stomach.”
“Course you don’t.”
She turns her head to look at me, and I can see her trying to figure out what I’m thinking. “You’re being weird.”
“How so?”
“Hovering. Fussing. Acting like I’m fragile.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “Why?”
Because you remind me of my wife when she was carrying our daughter.
“Because you just faced down the FBI, threw away your career, and then got sick in our bathroom,” I say instead. “Seems like a good time for a little fussing.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can. Doesn’t mean you have to.”
