Sometime in the morning, I consent to move Tate back upstairs to his bedroom. I sit in the armchair beside his bed, unable to sleep but in an exhausted haze. The world wavers with shiny patches of light and dark. Every noise is too loud. I rest my head on the back of the armchair, keeping my hand in his. Why hasn’t he woken up yet? Even Silas is surprised, as according to him, Tate has had worse injuries than this. Mob Doc is a sweet little old man. A real doctor too, not some back-alley veterinarian looking to line his pockets. Still, he wasn’t much help without equipment, not with this kind of injury. I start to second guess how thorough I really was at removing all the bullet fragments. Christ, I hope I got them all.

I remain by his side. And I talk. Well, babble is more like it. I throw out all my hopes, fears, and deep, deep worries about the baby while he’s too vulnerable to say anything back that would deflate my little safety bubble. I tell him everything I learned about my father after thinking I knew the man and my family all these years. I talk to him about how messed up I feel inside not knowing about my father’s connection to the local MCs. I talk about carrying his baby, who I already adore. Yes, and I tell Tate I love him too. I say everything I’ve been dying to say, then lean forward and rest my head in his unresponsive hand, and wait.

Axe knocks gently on the door jamb. “Hey, mind if I come in? I got a present.”

I nod and wave him in. We’ve all been through hell the past couple of hours, waiting for any signs that Tate is going to recover. Aside from small groans of pain and an occasional finger twitch, he’s barely moved. I keep wishing I’d insisted on taking him to a real hospital where they can monitor his vital and have all the modern drugs and equipment to respond however his body needs it. He deserves a fighting chance. I promise myself after this is all over I’ll start researching and taking notes on the more surgical aspects of medicine. Maybe my involvement can help.

“Yeah, sure. You don’t need to ask my permission, Axe.” I wipe my hand across my face and give him a weak smile.

“Here.” He thrusts out a pill bottle. “I figured you could use it while you’re with us. A friend of mine helped me out.”

A friend is code for a drug dealer, but on closer look, my eyebrows raise when I read the label. I nearly roll my eyes. It’s the same horse-sized maternal supplements my mother bought me. It’s cute, sweet even, and I promise myself inwardly that I’ll take them, even if I have to crush these suckers into powder with the back of a spoon to get them down my throat.

“Thanks, Axe. This’ll help a lot. It’s good stuff.”

“Only the best for my boy’s little one… and for you.” Axe clears his throat and looks at Tate in the bed. “He’s gonna be fine. You know that, right? You don’t need to be doing all this goodbye, spew your feelings bullshit. He’ll be there for you…and the baby. I won’t even have to force him or anything.”

I sharply glance up at him, putting the pills on the bedside table with narrowed eyes. Axe has been listening in on my confessional? A slow stream of anger simmers beneath my skin but I keep it in check. Maybe he has a reasonable explanation. Though I doubt it very much.

“It was more for me than anyone, cathartic as hell.”

“No doubt. I hope you don’t mind that I mentioned it. Couldn’t help it. You’re not quiet. And my room’s right next door. Thin walls and all that…oh, and can I be the first one to call you an honorary Mongols MC member?”

“You’re a mean bastard,” I say jokingly. “Christ, you heard that?”

“Uh-huh, but don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you.” He clears his throat. “But…in case you ever doubted it, that stubborn son of a bitch loves you too, Molly. I promise you that. The past little while, he’s been different. He’s been good, faithful and shit. Long before that night, we all found out about the little one. For this guy, the baby’s a major dealio. Sure, he still acts like a clown and an all-around douchebag, but that’s because his head didn’t catch up with his heart. It’s a man thing. We’re stupid like that. Anyway, what I’m saying is don’t confuse his silence for not caring. You know the shitty hand he was dealt early in life. Trust me when I tell you this is his once in a lifetime shot to be in a real family. He’d give anything to have that, even if the fucker will probably take a whole lifetime to admit it.”

I nod but can’t say anything. Not without crying again.

Axe rubs the back of his head. “Okay, it looks like this spewing feelings thing is contagious. I’ll be downstairs getting my made for TV drama sounding ass a drink.”

My heart pounds in my ears. I know now that my fear of rejection’s nothing compared to the terror I faced when I thought Tate might die.

“Okay…and thanks.” Axe nods, saluted, and is on his way out the door when I add, “But, Axe?”

He swivels in the doorway, rubbing his beard with his hand, and his eyebrows raise in question. “Yeah?”

“If he’s a dick and doesn’t want this baby, I’m kicking his ass when he gets better.”

“I’ll be right beside you with the shotgun. Promise.”

We share a light smile before he leaves. With a sigh, I turn my attention back to the pale man lying half-naked in bed. Even unconscious and bleeding, he’s eye candy to me. Which probably makes me a bad person, but I can always blame it on the baby hormones.

* * *

After a few hours of waiting and light sleep, Tate stirs on the bed, his fingers twitching around mine.

I lean closer to him. “Tate?”

He stirs even more, and my heart starts to race. I can’t take my eyes off him. I’m almost too afraid to hope. My gaze moves from the steady rise and fall of his chest to his fluttering eyes. Suddenly he blinks, and immediately I turn into a teary-eyed, blubbering, ugly-crying baby. I can’t contain the relief as my whole body sags into my chair. He might just make it.

“Tate, can you hear me? Are you okay?” I ask, and it comes out all hyphenated with whimpers and sniffled inhales.

He groans and winces, and his body twitches on the bed. I snatch up the water glass by his bedside and tip it to his lips. After a couple tries, he works his throat enough to get some liquids down.

“Let’s try this again,” I soothe. “Can you speak?”

“Stop asking me shit,” he whispers, then he lets out a huge breath as if he’s run a marathon, and makes a pained noise.

I can’t help laughing at his first words. There’s nothing really wrong with him, nothing so severe that he’s lost his sense of sarcasm. His gaze sweeps across my face, then he closes his eyes again.

“You need your rest, but it’s a good sign that you’re responsive. Can you do one more thing for me before you go back to sleep?”

“I don’t think mounting me is a great idea yet, doll, but I’m up for trying.”

I grin through my tears, glad he hasn’t said a word about anything too serious. “Smartass. You’ve been a real pain, buddy.”

“And you’ve missed me,” he says weakly.

We’re both silent. I can’t lie to him. He takes a few more sips of water that I offer him, moving his arms across his chest and resettling against the pillows. I know deep down it’s now or never. There’s a conversation we very much need to have, and if he’s vulnerable, he has to listen to whatever I have to say. Which is so much the better for the both of us.

“Tate, I’m keeping the baby. I’m going to raise our son…and I’d really like you to be a part of that…with me, as a family.” I swallow, twisting my hands in my lap. I straighten my spine, lift my chin slightly, and get ready for his rejection. “I know you and I have a different lifestyle…I’m not asking you to change anything. I’d just like you to be in our son’s life when you have time. If you have time.” I glance at the carpet. Even with his eyes closed, I’m not sure I can look at him while he seems to process what I said. Too much is laid out on the table. I can’t take it back now. “I know this isn’t the ideal scenario, but it is what it is…” I trail off, realizing I’m babbling and haven’t given him a second to say a word.

I wonder why I said a damn thing at all after a minute passes, but then remember I’ve given him the silent treatment for two weeks. This is probably his way of making me stew.

Bastard.