But then the worry for the baby itself settles in, quiet but heavy. What if the stress, the beating, the blood loss… What if it harmed the tiny life growing inside me? It's only a few weeks old. So fragile. So new. I press my bandaged hand instinctively over my stomach, as if I can shield it from everything that's already happened.
The doctor clears his throat gently, sensing the shift in the room. "An ultrasound will tell us more, but early signs look strong. We'll be careful and monitor everything closely. But right now, the baby appears to be doing just fine."
Gabe nods, but he doesn't let go of me. His hand covers mine on my stomach, warm and steady, his thumb is stroking slow circles, already promising this child the world. I look up at him again—battered, stitched, exhausted, and still the most beautiful man I've ever seen—and feel my chest overflow with joy.
"Gabe…" I whisper, having to clear my throat because my voice is thick with tears and wonder.
He leans down and kisses me, slow and deep and full of everything he feels. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, and his eyes are shining.
"Our baby," he breathes. "Fuck, Audra… I never let myself hope for this. You're giving me everything."
I laugh through the tears, shaky and overwhelmed, my free hand comes up to touch his swollen cheek. "I'm scared. For the baby. With everything that's happened…"
"I know," he murmurs, kissing me again, softer this time. "But I've got you. Both of you. Nothing is going to touch either of you. Not ever again."
This day has been a fuckingblood-soaked rollercoaster. One minute I'm ready to paint the walls with the blood of every last biker who touched her, the next I'm flying higher than I've ever been in my life. And now this.
A baby.
The word keeps echoing in my head like a fucking prayer I never dared to say out loud. A baby.
Mine.
Ours.
I'm floating somewhere above the goddamn clouds while my body is still grounded in this sterile room, blood on my shirt, head pounding from the graze. But none of that matters. Not the pain. Not the exhaustion. Not the dozen dead bikers we left behind. The only thing that matters is that I've put my mark on her. Deep. Permanent. Irrevocable. The woman I love is carryingmy child. She's completely mine, body, heart, soul, and now the tiny life growing inside her. The thought fills me with a savage, possessive joy that makes the possessive asshole in me purr like a well-fed lion. No one will ever take her from me again. Not Razor's ghost. Not the Collector. Not even her own doubts.
She's mine. I'll make sure of it, even if I have to burn the world twice over to keep her and our baby safe.
Nurse Betty rolls in the ultrasound machine, and the wheels whisper across the floor. Doc Altera reaches under the examination table and pulls out two metallic contraptions that have me narrow my eyes. Audra shifts, winces a little from her injuries, then obediently lifts her legs and settles her feet into the stirrups, spreading them.
"No fucking way," I grunt out.
This isnotgoing to happen.
She grins at me, tired, sweet, and a little shy. "Breathe, Gabe. It's completely normal."
I can't breathe. My jaw locks. My hands curl into fists at my sides. The doctor is about to look betweenherlegs. My wife's legs. Fine, technically, she's not my wife yet, but she will be. I'll drag a priest in here tonight if I have to. No discussion. No debate. She's carrying my baby. She's wearing my mark. She's mine.
The nurse picks up a long, oblong probe and squirts gel on it. It looks like a fucking vibrator. No.
Absolutely no fucking way.
I erupt before I can stop myself.
"You're not sticking that thing up my wife."
I move forward, threatening, shoulders squared, the full weight of the capo radiating off me like heat from a furnace. The doctor pales instantly, taking a half-step back. Audra's hand shoots out and grabs my arm. "Gabe, no. It's okay."
"It's not fucking okay," I snarl, eyes locked on the probe like it's a weapon aimed at what's mine. My voice drops into that dangerous register that makes grown men piss themselves.
"Look at me, Gabe," she coos softly, tugging my arm. "Just look at me. Okay?"
I force my gaze to her face. Those green-gold eyes—still a little hazy from everything she's been through—lock onto mine. Calm. Steady. Full of love and a touch of amusement despite the bruises and bandages. Inside, I'm at war.
The man in me who doesn't shy away from killing wants to rip the doctor's throat out for even thinking about putting anything inside her. She's mine. Her body is mine. No one else gets to touch what belongs to me. Especially not now, when she's carrying my child.
But the man who loves her—the one who almost lost her tonight—knows this is necessary. Knows the baby needs to be checked. Knows I'm being a possessive, territorial asshole.
