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He nods slowly. "Just checking. We've all noticed you've been... different lately. Leaving right afterkirkja, not hanging around. That's not like you."

"Maybe I'm getting old," I deflect. "Need more beauty sleep."

"Bullshit." But he lets it go. "Just keep your focus tonight. Can't afford to lose anyone else."

Twenty minutes later, I'm checking my gun for the third time when my phone buzzes.

Text from Everly:

Throwing up again. This baby hates me.

I type back:

Baby loves you. Just making their presence known. Ginger tea in the cabinet.

It’s not long before I get another reply:

Already tried. Didn't help. When will you be home?

Home. Like I belong there. Like that small apartment has become ours instead of hers.

I tell her the truth:

Late. Club business. Rest.

A moment barely passes before she’s texting me back:

Be careful.

Two words that hit harder than they should.

When's the last time someone gave a shit if I came back from a run?

The foster families sure didn't.

The club brothers care, but it's different.

This is personal. Intimate. Someone waiting specifically for me.

I shoot her a quick reply:

Always am. Doors locked?

The second her name pops back up on my phone, I smile:

Triple locked like you showed me. Stop worrying.

But I can't stop worrying.

Not with Dylan still out there, making threats.

Not with her carrying a baby that makes her even more vulnerable.

Yesterday she played me one of his voicemails—all apologies and promises to change.

Classic abuser shit.

Today it'll probably be threats again when she doesn't respond.