"Atara?" Echo asks, his chair scraping against the concrete floor as he stands up. "You okay? You went white."
"I am fine," I say, keeping my voice perfectly level. I take a slow, shallow breath, waiting for the squeeze to pass. It takes twenty agonizing seconds. "I am completely fine. However, we are going to have to pause the briefing on the transport depreciation."
Kieran stops cleaning his knife. "Why?"
"Because my uterus is currently executing a hostile takeover," I say, closing my laptop with a quiet, decisive click. I look up at the room full of men who are paid to erase people for a living. "Someone go get Lorcan."
For two seconds, nobody moves, the war room filled with silence.
And then, the panic hits.
It is, without a doubt, the most humiliating display of collective cowardice I have ever witnessed in my entire life. These are men who have faced federal indictments, rival syndicates, and active gun battles without so much as a twitch in their jaws.
Dominic jumps out of his chair so fast he knocks the leather seat over, the heavy wood crashing into the floor. "What do you mean? Now? Is it happening now?"
"Her water didn't break!" Sean yells from the back, his face going a pale, sickly shade of green. "Sean, you idiot, does the water have to break first? I don't know! Google it!"
"Echo, call the clinic!" Kieran barks, dropping his knife onto the table with a clatter. "No, wait, call the boss first! Where’s the phone? Who has the secure line?"
"I'm dialing! I'm dialing!" Echo shouts, his fingers flying across his tablet with a frantic, trembling speed that is entirely uncoordinated. "Fucking hell, the screen is locked! What’s the bypass code again?"
"It's my birthday, you giant, brainless gorilla!" I yell over the noise, my hand still clamped onto the table as a second, smaller contraction twinges. "The code is my birthday!"
The door to the war room is shoved back on its hinges with a violent, booming crash that rattles the light fixtures.
Lorcan stands in the threshold. He is in his charcoal trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his face is completely devoid of color. He looks wild, his hair a mess, his smoke-and-ice eyes locked onto me with a frantic, terrifying focus.
"Atara," he says. His voice is a low, raspy vibration that carries absolutely zero of his usual Don-like authority. He is shaking.
"Hi, Lorcan," I say, offering him a small, tight smile. "You're thirty seconds late. I was about to start docking your pay."
He crosses the war room in three massive strides, ignoring his lieutenants, ignoring the knocked-over chair, and stops right in front of me. He reaches down and, before I can even draw a breath to protest, he scoops me up into his arms, lifting my heavy, pregnant body off the table.
"Lorcan, put me down!" I shriek, my hands flying to his shoulders. "I have legs! I can walk to the garage! This is incredibly undignified!"
"Shut up,Kisa," he growls, his chest heaving against my side as he turns toward the door. "We're going."
"We are in the middle of a strategic planning session!" I yell, looking over his shoulder at the war room. Kieran, Echo, and Dominic are standing in a huddle, watching us go with expressions of pure, unadulterated relief. "Kieran! Take notes on page nine! Dominic, do not touch the shell accounts until I get back!"
"I won't! I promise!" Dominic shouts after us, sounding like a kid whose teacher just left the room.
Lorcan carries me through the foyer, his boots slamming against the marble with a rapid, relentless pace. My hands are bunchedin the collar of his shirt, my nose pressed against the side of his neck. He smells like sandalwood and pure, high-octane panic.
"If you drop me, O’Shea," I murmur as we hit the garage, "I will personally audit you into bankruptcy from my grave."
"I'm not dropping you," he mutters, sliding me into the passenger seat of the armored Suburban. He climbs in after me, slamming the door, and hits the engine.
The ride to the private medical clinic is a blur of desert road and Lorcan driving like a getaway driver after a bank heist. He has one hand white-knuckled on the steering wheel, the other wrapped tightly around mine. He is pressing his thumb against my knuckles, over and over, a repetitive, frantic motion.
"You're cutting off my circulation," I say, looking at our joined hands. "I need my fingers to count the hospital bill."
"I don't care about the bill," he growls, eyes fixed on the empty highway. "Breathe, Atara. The doctor said you have to breathe."
"I am breathing. I'm actually very good at it. You, on the other hand, look like you're about to have a stroke." I shift in the seat, wincing as another contraction ripples through my abdomen.
This baby is definitely early,I think, my mind running the numbers.Ten days early. She’s already ignoring the schedule. She’s definitely yours, Lorcan.
By the time we reach the clinic, the staff is already waiting. Lorcan doesn't let them wheel me in; he carries me through the doors himself, his jaw set so hard the muscle in his cheek looks like iron.
