Page 38 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

EMBER

My shoelaces might as well be on the moon.

I stare down at my feet, belly blocking any view of the black boots that need tying, and consider the mathematical impossibility of bending far enough to reach them. Eight months and two weeks of carrying these babies, and every simple task has become a strategic operation.

“Here.” Garrett appears with coffee and drops to one knee beside the kitchen chair, fingers working the laces with gentle care. “Left one’s been coming undone all week. I’ll double-knot it.”

“I used to be able to dress myself.”

“You still can. You just have a team now.” He ties the right boot, then sits back on his heels to examine his work. “There. Ready for another day of terrorizing Wolf Pike.”

Through the kitchen window, I watch Atlas loading medical supplies into the truck for the monthly distribution run to families who depend on our network. These days he insists on handling most of the physical work himself.

Silas emerges from his forge, metal shavings caught in his dark hair, carrying a tiny mobile made from hammered silver shapes. “Finished Connor’s mobile last night. Caleb’s will be ready by tomorrow.”

“They’re not even born yet, and you’re already spoiling them.”

“Bien s?r. That’s what fathers do.”

The ultrasound photos on the refrigerator door show two distinct profiles—Baby A with his thumb in his mouth, Baby B with what the technician called “an active personality.” Connor and Caleb, though we won’t know which is which until they decide to make their appearance.

“Coffee’s getting cold,” Garrett observes, settling into the chair beside me.

“Coffee makes them kick like soccer players.”

“Maybe they’ll be athletes.”

“Maybe they’ll be troublemakers like their fathers.”

Atlas returns from loading the truck, keys jangling in his hand. “Ready for today’s adventure?”

“Do I have a choice?” I ask.

“You could stay home and let us handle the distribution.”

“And miss seeing Mrs. Henderson’s face when she gets her new insulin pump? Not likely.”

The drive to the first stop requires careful navigation of mountain roads that weren’t designed for pregnant passengers. Every bump sends sharp jabs through my lower back, and the seat belt cuts across my stomach at an angle that makes breathing difficult.

“Comfortable?” Silas asks from the driver’s seat, adjusting the rearview mirror to watch me.

“Comfortable as someone carrying two watermelons can be.”

“Almost over,” Atlas says from the passenger seat. “Two more weeks, according to Doc Morrison.”

“Two weeks feels like two years.”

But I wouldn’t trade this discomfort for anything. These babies are the culmination of everything we’ve built together—love born from chaos, family forged from the most unlikely circumstances.

Mrs. Henderson lives in a trailer at the end of a dirt road that barely qualifies as drivable. Seventy-three years old, diabetic since her forties, abandoned by insurance companies who consider her a liability rather than a person.

“Ember!” She greets me from her front porch, face lighting up at the sight of our truck. “Look at you, honey. Those babies are going to be here any day now.”

“Two more weeks, supposedly.”

“Babies come when they’re ready, not when doctors predict. I had five, and not one of them followed the schedule.”

Atlas and Garrett unload the insulin pump and supplies while Silas helps me navigate the uneven steps to her living room. The space is small but immaculately clean, filled with photographs of grandchildren and great-grandchildren who live too far away to visit regularly.

“This is incredible,” Mrs. Henderson breathes, examining the insulin pump with care. “I never thought I’d have one of these.”

“Insurance should have covered it years ago,” Atlas says, his voice carrying the anger we all feel about systems that fail the people who need them most.

“Insurance doesn’t care about old ladies in trailers. But you do, and that makes all the difference.”

We spend an hour setting up the device and teaching her how to operate it. Simple technology that will transform her daily life, allowing her to maintain stable blood sugar without the constant injections that have become increasingly difficult for her arthritic hands.

“How can I ever repay you?” she asks as we prepare to leave.

“Just stay healthy,” I tell her. “That’s payment enough.”

“These babies are lucky to have parents like you. All four of you,” she adds with a knowing smile that suggests small-town gossip travels faster than we realize.

The next stop is the Morrison family—a veteran with PTSD and his wife, who homeschools their four children.

They need the specialized medication that keeps him functional, the therapy equipment that helps him sleep without nightmares, and the educational supplies that give their kids opportunities they couldn’t otherwise afford.

By the third stop, my back aches constantly, and my feet have swollen enough that my boots feel tight. But watching a young mother receive the nebulizer that will keep her asthmatic son breathing makes every discomfort worthwhile.

“Home?” Atlas suggests that we finish the last delivery.

“Home sounds wonderful.”

The nursery has been ready for weeks—two cribs positioned so the babies can see each other, mobiles hanging at the perfect height to capture infant attention, shelves lined with books in three languages because Silas insists bilingual children develop stronger cognitive abilities.

“Tomorrow I’ll finish the matching dresser,” Garrett says, running his hand along the smooth wood of Connor’s crib. “And the rocking chair should be ready by the weekend.”

“You’ve built them an entire furniture store.”

“They deserve the best of everything.”

“They deserve parents who love them unconditionally. The furniture is just a bonus.”

Atlas appears with the evening medication I’ve been taking to prevent early labor—iron supplements, prenatal vitamins, and the mild sedative that helps me sleep despite the constant movement in my belly.

“Doc Morrison called. Wants to see you tomorrow for the final check before delivery.”

“What if he says I need to be induced?”

“Then we’ll support whatever decision is safest for you and the babies.”

“What if there are complications?”

“There won’t be,” Silas says with absolute conviction. “Connor and Caleb are strong, healthy boys who are eager to meet their fathers.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Bien s?r, I know. Just like I know Connor will be the quiet one and Caleb will be the troublemaker.”

“Based on what evidence?”

“Based on the way they move. Connor settles when you’re calm. Caleb kicks whenever there’s excitement.”

I consider this, feeling the subtle difference in their movements throughout the day. One does seem more responsive to external stimulation while the other maintains a steadier rhythm.

Garrett brings dinner—soup and bread that won’t upset my increasingly sensitive stomach. Simple food that tastes incredible when prepared with love and served by men who monitor every bite to ensure proper nutrition.

“Early night?” Atlas suggests when I finish eating.

“Early night sounds good.”

The bedtime routine has evolved to accommodate my changing body. Garrett arranges pillows to support my back and stomach. Silas massages my swollen feet until the circulation improves. Atlas reads aloud from the pregnancy books that predict what to expect during labor and delivery.

“Chapter twelve: Signs of impending labor,” he begins, settling into the chair beside our bed. “Nesting instincts, increased Braxton Hicks contractions, dropping of the baby or babies into the pelvis…”

“I definitely dropped last week. Can barely breathe when I’m sitting upright.”

“Lightning. That’s the technical term for dropping.”

“Sounds more pleasant than it feels.”

“Loss of mucus plug, increased vaginal discharge, diarrhea or nausea, burst of energy followed by extreme fatigue…”

“Had the energy burst yesterday. Organized every closet in the house.”

“And today?”

“Today I can barely keep my eyes open.”

Atlas closes the book, leaning forward to kiss my forehead. “Sleep. We’ll handle everything else.”

But sleep doesn’t come easily. Connor and Caleb have decided this is the perfect time for gymnastics, rolling and kicking with enough force to make my entire belly shift and ripple.

Every position becomes uncomfortable within minutes, and the constant pressure on my bladder means multiple trips to the bathroom throughout the night.

Around two in the morning, I feel the first real contraction.

Not the practice contractions I’ve been having for weeks, but a wave of pain that starts in my lower back and wraps around my entire abdomen like a steel band tightening around my body.

I breathe through it, counting seconds until it passes. Probably false labor. First-time mothers often experience days of false starts before real labor begins.

The second contraction hits twenty minutes later, stronger and longer than the first.

The third comes fifteen minutes after that.

By the fourth contraction, I know this isn’t practice.

“Atlas.” I shake his shoulder gently. “I think it’s time.”

He’s awake instantly, years of military training allowing him to transition from sleep to full alertness within seconds. “Contractions?”

“Real ones. Started about an hour ago.”

“How far apart?”

“Fifteen minutes now, but they’re getting closer.”

He reaches for his phone, probably calling Doc Morrison to report the situation. Beside him, Garrett stirs at the sound of voices.

“What’s happening?” he mumbles, still half-asleep.

“Babies are coming.”

That gets his attention. He sits up immediately, running his hands through his hair as he processes the situation. “Now? Tonight?”

“Babies come when they’re ready,” I tell him, repeating Mrs. Henderson’s words from earlier today. “Apparently, Connor and Caleb are ready.”

Silas appears in the doorway, drawn by our voices. “Labor?”

“Labor.”

“Merde. I need to get the hospital bag.”