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Chapter Fifty
Josephine
Devotedly, I breastfeed Cruz and Easton simultaneously. They’re exact replicas of their father. Dark heads of hair, eyes so brown you’d think they were black, and long limbs.
They’re fraternal, but I question the results of the zygosity test. They look as identical as identical can get. The only difference is in how they cry. Cruz wails and Easton whimpers. Flay already said we’ll retest once we get back home in Colorado.
Home.I cannot even contemplate leaving unless Maceo is coming back with us. There’s no home for me without him. He is where home is.
My worry is beyond anything I experience while in captivity. Not knowing if he’s okay or alive has me hardly able to function. I’m in a constant state of depression, crying soundlessly. I eat only because I have to for my sons. Sleep doesn’t come easy. It’s only when exhaustion becomes too great to ignore that I’m able to pass out. When things become too unbearable, I take up my twins in my arms and hold them close. They’re the only reason I haven’t completely fallen apart.
Punk stayed dutifully by my side, reminding me I had them to think about, how they needed me. My brother left yesterday with the rest of the Mercy Ravens crew, promising he would bring my husband home and soon. I believe he will. In what state he will be returned to me is what has me in knots.
My stubborn, loving, protective, biker husband traded places with me so the boys and I could be free. I understand why he did it, but when he comes back, I’m going to have a hard time not strangling his stupid ass.
“Ahem,” Tony clears his throat.
I look at my friend—my hero—sitting in the corner of my hospital room, trying to avert his eyes. Tony donated blood when I hemorrhaged during delivery. The hemorrhaging caused anemia, making me extremely ill. My breathing and heart function was dangerously low, and for a while, it looked like I wasn’t going to make it. Cue my blood brother coming to the rescue.
“Yes?”
Tony keeps his eyes trained on the ground. He points a thick finger at me. “I think Cruz, no, Easton finished.”
I glance down. Easton did stop, passed out cold with his little mouth hung open and milk dribbling down his chin. I should have known he’d finish early. Easton is the Hoover, where Cruz likes to taste his food, savoring it.
My boob has been sticking out for the world to see for God knows how long. I should be embarrassed, but after delivering in a helicopter with Punk and Tony’s help, modesty seems like a moot point.
With a sigh, I place Easton between my thighs and put my boob back in my top. “Sorry, Tony.”
When I’m adequately covered, Tony comes and takes Easton from my lap. He swaddles him before tucking him into his arm like a football, cooing at him affectionately. Tony looks pretty good with a baby in his arms—he would wear fatherhood well.
Cruz is still guzzling away, his milk-drunk eyes rolling around in his tiny head. When he’s finally had his fill, he unlatches with a resounding pop. I cover up and swaddle him like a burrito before reaching out with one hand for Tony to hand me Easton.
Tony pouts, not wanting to give up my little bundle, but he places him in my lap alongside his brother. He rubs his hands over both their heads before leaning over and placing a kiss on the top of my head. I smile up at my friend, thinking of how much we’ve gone through together. I’m grateful to have this giant in my life. When he sits back down, my head swivels around to my babies.
This is the part of the day I’ve grown to need. I stare at their beautiful cherub faces side by side—perfect, just like their daddy. I lean forward, inhaling their sweet scents. Instinctively, my body rocks them side to side. It not only comforts them but me too. With a heavy heart, I close my eyes as my tears brim over.
It’s as I’m hunched over my babies that I feel a change in the air—a static charge. The hairs on my arms stand at attention, my skin breaks out in goosebumps, and my heart takes flight like a hummingbird’s wings.
Maceo.
He’s here. I sense it in my skin, in my heart, in my soul.
My hand palms my chest where my torn heart is being made whole again. Its other half has returned.
“Maceo,” I whisper.
Afraid I may be hopelessly imagining things, I slowly peek over my shoulder.
The love of my life stands in the doorway of my hospital room, looking tall and strong. He’s dirty, beat-up, blood-splattered, but very much alive.
My voice gets stuck in my throat, a silent cry escaping me.
Tony hastily exits the room, shutting the door behind him, giving us privacy for this overdue reunion.
My husband rushes to my side, dropping to his knees. His bulky arms encase me and our twins, holding us close to his chest. “Pixie,” he sighs with relief.
“Maceo,” I gasp, burying my face into the crook of his neck.
