Page 78 of Claimed By the Bikers
“What do you want to happen next?”
“I want to build something. Something permanent and beautiful and worth protecting.” She tilts her head to look at me. “I want to have babies with you. With all of you. I want to fill that big house with children and laughter.”
“Ma belle…”
“I know it’s crazy. I know we’re in the middle of a war, that there are people who want to destroy what we’ve built. But maybe that’s exactly why we should think about the future. Maybe creating something beautiful is the best way to fight back against all the darkness.”
I think about this, about the image she’s painted—children running through our house, tiny voices calling for their fathers, the restaurant filled with family instead of just customers.
It’s a dream I didn’t know I wanted until she gave it words.
“You know what I think?” I tell her.
“What?”
“I think your mother was right. Beautiful things can survive in dark places. Sometimes they even shine brighter because of the darkness around them.”
“You think we could do it? Build something like that?”
“With you? I think we could build anything.”
The ride back is peaceful after we’ve eaten the supplies I brought. Her arms are secure around my waist as we navigate the dark roads home. But I catch her hand drifting to her stomach more than once, an unconscious gesture that makes me wonder if there’s something she’s not telling me yet.
24
EMBER
Nausea hitsme before I’m fully awake. It’s rolling through my stomach like a wave I can’t escape. I make it to the bathroom just in time, retching into the toilet while Garrett’s voice calls from the bedroom.
“You alright, lass?”
“Fine,” I manage between heaves. “Just need a minute.”
But I’m not fine, and we both know it. This is maybe the sixth morning in a row I’ve been sick, and no amount of telling myself it’s stress is going to make it true anymore.
When the worst passes, I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Pale skin, dark circles under my eyes.
I know what this is. I’ve known for days, maybe weeks, but I haven’t been ready to admit it.
The last time I felt like this, I was nineteen years old and terrified. College sophomore, dating a boy from my criminal justice class who thought he was going to be the next great FBIprofiler. Aaron had ambition and confidence and absolutely no interest in anything that might derail his career trajectory.
I was three weeks late when I finally bought the pregnancy test.
The test was negative, but those twenty minutes waiting for the result were the longest of my life. I sat on my dorm room floor, staring at that plastic stick and trying to imagine what I’d do if it showed two lines instead of one.
Tell Aaron? He’d probably suggest an abortion and offer to split the cost. Tell my mother? She was already working two jobs to keep me in school. The last thing she needed was her daughter getting pregnant and throwing away every opportunity she’d worked so hard to provide.
When that single line appeared, I cried with relief. Then I broke up with Aaron the next day.
The memory fades as Garrett appears in the bathroom doorway. “Ember, what’s going on? You’ve been sick every morning for days.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“It’s just stress?—”
“It’s not stress.” His voice is gentle but firm. “And we both know it.”
