Page 64 of Angel
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like you’re proud,” she says through gritted teeth. “It makes me want to cry.” My throat tightens.
“I am proud,” I say anyway. “Deal with it.”
She makes a noise that is half sob, half laugh. Then another contraction hits and she mutters, “I hate you.”
I smirk. “You love me.”
“Not right now.”
“Yes, right now,” I insist.
“Angel”
“Stevie,” I cut in softly. “Listen. Whatever happens in there. Whatever happens—”
Her eyes widen. “Don’t.”
I swallow hard and nod. “Okay. I won’t.”
I don’t speak the fear out loud.
I don’t give it shape.
I just keep driving.
Keep breathing.
Keep holding her hand like it’s the only thing keeping the world from splitting in half.
The hospital sign appears ahead. Stevie exhales a shaky breath that sounds like relief and terror all tangled up.
“We’re here,” I say, voice rough. “We’re here.”
And as I pull into the emergency entrance and the brothers’ bikes roll in behind us like a damn cavalry, I realize something wild and steady all at once. All the waiting, the fear and the almosts. They brought us here. And I’ve never been more ready for chaos in my life. Because this time, this time, I’m not just surviving. I’m here. I’m present. And we’re about to meet the future face to face together.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Stevie
Pain has a sound. I don’t know how to explain it any other way, just that when it hits, it roars through me like something alive. Something ancient and insistent. Something that doesn’t care who I am or how brave I thought I was. It takes. It demands. It does not ask permission.
The hospital room is bright and too white and smells like antiseptic and something metallic beneath it all. The monitor beside me beeps in steady rhythm, mocking the chaos inside my body. My fingers dig into the side rail of the bed as another contraction slams through me, stealing breath, stealing thought.
I gasp.
Not pretty.
Not controlled.
Just raw.
“Breathe, baby,” Angel says immediately. His voice cuts through the noise like a blade. Steady. Low. Grounded. I cling to it.
My forehead is slick with sweat. My hair sticks to the back of my neck. Everything below my ribs feels like fire and pressure and something splitting me open from the inside out. There’s no modesty here. No elegance. Just my body doing what it was built to do and doing it violently.
“I can’t,” I gasp as the wave peaks. “Angel, I can’t”
