Page 67 of His Holy Chaos

Jude kneels, looking at me like a lost puppy.

Beside him, Pierce descends with a theatrical hiss, his face scrunching in performative agony that's at least partly genuine. Noa follows, quieter, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on Henry.

Three brats. Three Doms. The club watching.

I step behind Jude and place my hand on his head.

His hair is damp at the temples. Sweat from the dancing, the adrenaline. I feel the tension in his neck, the muscles straining against the impulse to move, to adjust, to flee from the discomfort radiating up through his kneecaps where the rice presses.

He doesn't move. He holds.

His breathing is shallow and quick, each exhale accepting the pain. I press my thumb against the nape of his neck. His breath deepens. He leans into my hand. His hand finds my ankle. His fingers wrap around it: a point of contact, a tether. I massage his scalp. Daddy's here. Breathe. Good boy.

The fifteen minutes feel like an hour and a heartbeat simultaneously. When Henry calls time, Noa collapses sideways, away from the rice and corn, with a groan that's mostly genuine. Pierce launches into a tirade about Geneva Conventions that he clearly had prepared in advance. And Jude, Jude looks up at me, and his face is a ruin of defiance and relief.

I pull him to his feet. His legs are unsteady, and he leans into me, and I hold him.

"Good boy. I'm so proud of you," I murmur against his temple. He holds me tighter.

Chapter 29. Jude

The sound that wakes me isn't a cry. This is something I've never heard from her before: a high, keening note that reaches into the dark bedroom and drags me awake as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over me. It's terrifying.

Ford is already moving. He's off the mattress before my eyes are fully open.

"Jude. Get up."

I'm up. I'm up before the words land. The hallway is dark except for the blue glow leaking from the nursery.

Ford is holding Angel against his chest with one arm, his other hand pressed flat against her forehead. She's flushed, sweaty, and babies don't sweat. She's squirming against him.

"She's burning up," Ford says, and he sounds desperate. Not something I've heard from him before. "She's… feel her. Jude, feel her."

I cross the room and press the back of my hand against Angel's cheek. She's burning. The heat coming off her is alarming. Poor thing.

"Okay," I say. I hear my voice come out steady, and I'm as surprised by it as Ford is. He needs me. "Okay. We're going to the ER. I need you to get dressed."

Ford doesn't move. He's staring at Angel's face with an expression I haven't seen before on him. Panic. This isn't worry. This is memory. I can see it in his eyes, the way they've gone dark and distant, like he's looking at Angel but seeing someone else. His sister, who went in for a birth and didn't come back. Something seizes in my chest, but I swallow it down.

"Daddy." I put my hand on his arm. He flinches, actually flinches, which he never does, and that tells me exactly how far he's gone. "Give her to me. Get dressed. We're going now."

He transfers Angel into my arms. I feel the heat of her immediately, the sick warmth of her body against my chest, and she makes that sound again. But I won't panic. He needs me. She needs me too.

I carry her to the changing table and lay her down. She protests, weakly, without her usual fury. I grab a clean diaper and a clean onesie from the drawer and start working.

Ford appears in the doorway, half-dressed, his shirt buttoned wrong, his hands shaking. He reaches for the diaper bag on the shelf and knocks it sideways.

"I'll get the bag," I tell him. "Finish getting dressed. Shoes. Keys. Go."

He goes.

I snap the last button on Angel's onesie and wrap her in the softest blanket I can find. "I know, baby," I whisper. "I know it's bad. We're going to fix it."

The car is cold. I drive. Ford gets in the back, next to Angel's car seat. A fine drizzle has started, too light to justify but too persistent to ignore, and the wipers squeak against the windshield.

"It's okay, Little Bird," he murmurs to Angel. "Daddy's here. We're almost there. You're going to be fine."

He's not talking to her. He's talking to himself.