Page 62 of Angel
She opens her eyes and glares. “Not you. My body. I hate my body right now.”
That hits me right in the chest. I cup her face gently, thumbs brushing her cheeks. “Hey. Don’t do that.”
She swallows, pain flickering. “It hurts.”
“I know,” I say. “But your body ain’t the enemy.”
Her eyes glisten. She doesn’t speak. Just nods once, tight.
I kiss her forehead. “You’re doing it. You hear me? You’re doing the damn thing.”
Her mouth trembles, then she lets out a shaky laugh. “You sound like Tank.”
“Don’t insult me,” I mutter.
She snorts, then hisses as another wave hits.
“Okay,” she pants. “Okay, go. Go now.”
I get her into the truck carefully, hands steady even though my heart’s trying to punch its way out of my ribs. I buckle her in. She grabs my wrist before I can close the door.
“Angel,” she says, voice low and serious, eyes locked on mine. “No matter what happens…”
“Hey,” I interrupt softly, leaning in until my forehead rests against hers. “We’re doing this. Together. Remember?”
She breathes through her nose, eyes shining.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “Together.”
Another contraction hits. She sucks in a breath, nails biting into my arm like she’s holding on to the only solid thing in the world. I grin like a lunatic because I don’t know what else to do with the surge of love and fear in my chest.
“That’s my girl.”
Pandora leans in from the other side, brushing Stevie’s hair back.
“You are strong,” she says, voice firm. “And if you break him, I will forgive you.”
Stevie laughs through the pain. “Deal.”
Tank slams the passenger door shut and points down the road like he’s directing a military convoy.
“Go,” he orders. “We’ll follow.”
Joker’s already on his bike, Beau watching wide-eyed from the clubhouse steps with Carrie’s hand on his shoulder. I slide into the driver’s seat. Hands on the wheel.
Breathe.
Slow.
Steady.
I start the engine, and the rumble feels like a promise.
As we pull out, bikes fall in behind us, headlights blazing, brothers flanking us like a moving wall. It’s ridiculous. Over the top. And it’s exactly right. Stevie grips my hand with a death hold, breathing through another wave.
“This is it,” she whispers.
I squeeze back, voice rough and sure. “Yeah, baby. It is.”
