Page 184 of I Will Revel in Glory (Death by Daybreak MC 3)
Because I’m apparently sentimental and not very creative, I name the baby Katrina. Kat, for short. I must be a goddamn masochist.
The guys were all in agreement, too, which I appreciated. Not that it matters because I would’ve named my baby whatever the hell I wanted anyway.
They all take to being dads in a way that’s actually not all that surprising to me. Walking in and seeing any one of them holding the baby in their arms, cradled against their leather cuts, makes my ovaries go crazy.
I have a bad feeling about that. Like, how many goddamn kids am I going to end up with?
As time passes, and the six of us—plus Fem and sometimes Nellie—morph into a beautiful, cohesive family unit, I start to notice something.
“Katrina came from Colton’s balls,” I say one night when we’re sitting in the living room, and the kid is asleep. It’s become obvious at this point. Not sure if it’s her nose or her mouth that really gives it away, but I can tell. My daughter, of course, has the same red-brown eyes and dark hair that I have, that Cat had, that Gaz had. It’s in our blood, our wicked, wicked blood that I both hope and fear that she’s inherited.
If she’s as wild and untamed as I am, then I feel sorry for her already.
“Bullshit,” Grainger growls out, pouring a Scotch and then handing it over to me. I’m twenty-one now, so I can drink legally. Cool. Thanks US government for your permission. Not that I haven’t been drinking for fucking years at that point. “I don’t see it. How do you figure?”
I just give him a look, leaning back on the couch with my dog curled up by my side, Sin seated next to us. He’s smirking already and pretending to hide it as he takes a sip of his drink.
“Guess I just had the youngest sperm, so it took, you know?” he says with an insufferably smug chuckle. He glances over at me, and my breath catches, my lower stomach muscles tightening. It’s not just his silver eyes or his now black and green faux-hawk, it’s something else. A dark memory of him tying me up with a belt and fucking me from behind in the basement of my Gram’s house during a mafia attack.
That’s how we conceived our kid.
Yep.
Sounds about right.
I sip my Scotch and enjoy the burn as Grainger narrows his eyes on the pair of us.
“You know what,” he says as Beast and Crown finally get home after a long day, the front door slamming shut behind them, their boots loud on the hall floor as they make their way into the living room to join us. “If you think that’s the case, then I want a DNA test. That way we can plan for the next one.”
“Pardon?” Beast purrs, moving over to get a glass of Scotch for himself. “We talkin’ about having another kid already?”
“Uh, it’s my body, so I’ll decide that, thank you very much.” I move to lift my drink to my lips when I notice Crown staring at me. Right after Katrina was born, he took me to a fancy five-star restaurant, got down on one knee, and presented me with his aunt’s ring while asking me to marry him in front of a bunch of annoying strangers. I said yes, and they all clapped and cheered which was irritating as fuck.
I pretend to examine the ring instead of looking at his face. We had a wedding in the church, too, just like I did with Beast. I’m sure I’ll end up having two more weddings with Sin and Grainger, but I doubt either of them would want to use the stuffy church. Maybe … Vegas or something? We can’t get married on paper, but we can walk down the aisle with Elvis or some shit.
“If we’re talking about making new babies …” Crown starts, trailing off before he moves over to get his own drink. “You promised me: within five years, everything in your power.”
“Why are we even talkin’ about this?” Beast queries, turning back around to study me and Sin.
“Because we can all tell that Katrina came from me,” Sin offers up, and the self-satisfied expression on his face makes me want to deny it. But I can’t. Because it’s true, goddamn it. “You guys better get cracking before your balls shrivel up. Aren’t you like, forty or something?” He teases Beast who narrows his blue eyes on him.
He’ll be thirty-seven this year, but that’s nowhere near old. We’ve got time. I grin and down the rest of my drink, pausing when I hear a small voice calling for me from up the stairs.
I put my glass down and head up to grab my daughter, lifting her into my arms as she rubs her fists against her eyes and blinks at me. We look at each other, and she smiles because she knows what the sound of boots downstairs means.
