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"Fine," she huffs. "I'll kill him when she's eighteen."
"Hey, ladybug," Samara whispers, running her palm gently over Scout's head. "I brought a special visitor for you tonight. He's bossy, but he's a doctor, so I guess he can't help it."
I smile at her comment, amused. She's been calling me bossy all evening. I don't mind. She can call me whatever she wants. It doesn't change the facts. I know what I want and what I want is her.
Scout's resting comfortably in her crib, her tiny lips slightly parted. Her skin is ashen and a pale blue from lack of oxygen. It's common with her condition. Because there's only one vessel instead of two, oxygen-rich blood and oxygen-poor blood mix on the way out of the heart, meaning not enough of the former gets to the lungs. Her condition hasn't deteriorated enough for her to require a ventilator just yet but it's close. Without surgery, her health will continue to decline. In a matter of weeks, her lungs simply won't be able to keep up. They'll fail. Eventually, her heart will too.
Congenital defects are a particularly cruel twist of genetics. They form long before science even has a hope of stopping them. By the time most parents even know something is wrong, the course is already set. In Scout's case, even if Siobhan had been tested during pregnancy, the outcome wouldn't have changed. Scout would have been in the operating room sooner, but there is no unraveling a congenital defect.
It seems like she rests a little easier with Samara crooning to her. Her heart rate slows, her tiny body sinking a little deeper into sedation. She's a beautiful little girl, a dark-haired angel like her aunt. My heart pulses with emotion as I watch Samara with her. She's a natural, the fierce love she feels for the tiny baby pouring out of her. It pulses in the air around her, shining as bright as the sun.
Not for the first time today, I find myself awestruck by her. She gave up everything without hesitation to be here for Scout. She's holding it together admirably when anyone else would be broken on the floor.
"Were you and your sister close?" I ask, wanting to understand her.Needingto understand her on levels I'm not sure I can put into words.
She freezes for a moment and then slowly relaxes, stroking her hand over Scout's head again. "We were. Once." She sighs. "Siobhan left home my junior year of high school. We kept in touch regularly for the first couple of years, and then things changed. After our mom died, she grew more distant."
"Your mom died?"
She bobs her head in a tired nod. "Three years ago, " she says, her voice soft. "She had too much to drink and decided to get behind the wheel of her car anyway."
I frown, leaning back against the glass wall. "Was this a common occurrence?"
"Common enough."
Jesus.
"Our mom died instantly," she continues after a moment. "Siobhan came home for the funeral. That was the last time I saw her. I tried to convince her to move back after that, but she seemed happy." She huffs out a sad breath. "I should have tried harder."
"Hey." I push away from the wall and cross toward her before gently turning her to face me. "No one can predict the future, angel. Don't force yourself to carry guilt that doesn't belong to you. You didn't know."
"Did she?" she whispers, staring up at me with wide, worried eyes. "I keep asking myself that question, Tate. How long was Danny involved with this club? How long was she involved? I have so many damn questions."
"Then we'll find the answers," I say, pulling her into my arms. Surprisingly, she doesn't fight me. She lets me comfort her. "But I won't allow you to feel guilt that doesn't belong to you. It belongs to the club who did this to her."
"I hate them," she whispers.
"I know." I dig my thumbs into the back of her neck, massaging the tendons. "But not all MCs are the same."
"How do you know?"
Tell her, a little voice whispers.You have to tell her.
"Because I'm not," I murmur. "Because my brothers aren't."
She goes rigid in my arms and then pulls back. Her confused gaze meets mine. "What do you mean, you're not?" she asks. "Are you saying that you're in an–?"
"Yes."
Fear trickles into her gold eyes, stopping my heart. Fuck. Seeing it there burns like corrosive acid. The last thing I want is for this incredible woman to fear me or my brothers.
"We're not them, Samara," I say, my voice soft, emphatic.
I'm not sure if she believes me or not. Scout's night nurse bustles in, interrupting us before she can respond.
"Hey, Dr. Grimes. Good evening, Miss Lansing," she says, smiling between us. "It's time for Miss Scout's meds."
Samara stares at me for a long, silent moment and then spins away, her expression indecipherable.
