Page 39 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

“Silas, the bag’s been packed for three weeks. It’s by the front door.”

“Right. Of course.” But he disappears anyway, probably needing movement to manage his anxiety.

Another contraction builds, stronger than the previous ones, and I grip Atlas’s hand as the pain peaks. “Definitely real labor.”

“Doc Morrison’s meeting us at the clinic. Says first babies usually take their time, so we don’t need to panic.”

“Who’s panicking?”

Garrett appears with clothes—soft pants and a loose shirt that will accommodate my belly during the drive to town. “Can you walk?”

“I’m pregnant, not paralyzed.”

But walking proves more challenging than expected. The babies have dropped so low that each step sends pressure through my pelvis, and another contraction halfway down the stairs forces me to grip the railing until it passes.

“Maybe I should carry you,” Garrett suggests.

“Maybe you should let me walk at my own pace.”

Silas has the truck running, hospital bag and medical supplies loaded in the back. He’s also brought pillows, blankets, snacks, and enough bottled water for a week-long camping trip.

“Did you pack everything we own?” I ask.

“Just the essentials.”

“Silas, we’re going five miles to Doc Morrison’s clinic, not emigrating to another country.”

“Better prepared than sorry.”

The drive takes forever despite the short distance. Every bump in the road sends shock waves through my body, and two more contractions hit before we reach the clinic’s parking lot.

Doc Morrison meets us at the entrance, wheeling a chair despite my protests that I can walk perfectly fine. “How far apart are the contractions?”

“Ten minutes, lasting about forty-five seconds each.”

“Good. Textbook early labor. Let’s get you inside and see how far you’ve progressed.”

The examination room is small but well equipped, designed for the kind of personal care that larger hospitals can’t provide. Doc Morrison has delivered half the babies in Wolf Pike over the past thirty years, including several sets of twins.

“Four centimeters dilated,” he announces after checking my progress. “Still have a ways to go, but things are moving along nicely.”

“What can we do?”

“Walk if you’re comfortable. Change positions frequently. Stay hydrated. And try to relax—stress can slow down labor.”

“Relax while getting ready to push two humans out of my body?”

“I know it sounds impossible, but tension makes everything harder.”

The next six hours pass in a blur of contractions, walking the clinic’s hallways, and breathing exercises that seem useless when the pain peaks.

Atlas times each contraction. Garrett massages my lower back during the worst moments.

Silas speaks soft French words that somehow make everything bearable.

“Eight centimeters,” Doc Morrison reports during his latest examination. “Getting close now.”

“How close?”

“Close enough that I need to start preparing for delivery. These boys are eager to meet their family.”

The transition phase hits like a freight train—contractions every two minutes, lasting ninety seconds each, with pain that makes everything I’ve experienced so far seem mild by comparison. I can’t walk anymore, and I can barely think between contractions.

“Almost time,” Doc Morrison says, checking again. “Ten centimeters, fully effaced. Ready to start pushing.”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“You can,” Atlas says firmly, gripping my hand. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

“We’re all here,” Garrett adds, stroking my hair. “You’re not doing this alone.”

“Courage, ma belle,” Silas whispers. “Connor and Caleb are waiting to meet you.”

The pushing phase feels endless. Every contraction demands effort that leaves me exhausted, but somehow I find strength for the next push, and the next, and the next.

“I can see the first head,” Doc Morrison announces. “Dark hair, just like his fathers.”

Three more contractions, three more pushes, and suddenly there’s a slippery, screaming bundle being placed on my chest.

“Baby A,” Doc Morrison says, clamping and cutting the cord. “Seven pounds, two ounces, and very unhappy about being evicted.”

Atlas cuts the cord with hands that shake slightly, his face showing wonder and terror in equal measure.

“One down, one to go,” Doc Morrison says, preparing for the second delivery.

Baby B arrives twelve minutes later, slightly smaller but with an even more impressive set of lungs. Garrett receives him first, cradling the tiny form to his chest.

“Seven pounds even,” Doc Morrison announces, cutting the second cord. “Both babies are healthy, breathing well, excellent color. Two healthy, beautiful boys.”

Silas starts singing immediately—a French lullaby his grandmother used to sing, his voice soft and sweet as he welcomes his sons into the world.

“Fais dodo, Colas mon petit frère,” he croons, tears streaming down his face. “Fais dodo, t’auras du lolo…”

Doc Morrison works efficiently, delivering the placentas and checking for complications. “Everything looks good. No tears, minimal bleeding, both babies scored nine on their Apgar tests.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you did beautifully, and your sons are absolutely perfect.”

Connor and Caleb—though I still don’t know which is which—have stopped crying and are looking around.

“They’re so small,” Atlas marvels, touching a tiny fist.

“Seven pounds isn’t small for twins,” Doc Morrison assures him. “They’re actually quite good-sized.”

“Can I hold them both?” I ask.

“Of course. They’ve been listening to your voice for months. You’re the most familiar thing in their world right now.”

He places both babies on my chest, skin to skin, and immediately they calm down. Two tiny boys who already know they’re safe, they’re loved, they’re home.

“Thank you,” I whisper to the three men surrounding us.

“For what?” Garrett asks.

“For giving me this. For choosing me. For making me part of your family.”

“Ma belle, you gave us this,” Silas corrects. “You gave us sons. You gave us a future.”

“We gave each other everything,” Atlas says quietly. “That’s what families do.”

Doc Morrison finishes cleaning up and makes notes on his clipboard. “I’ll need names for the birth certificates.”

“Connor James and Caleb Michael,” I say, using the middle names we chose to honor Atlas’s grandfather and Silas’s father.

“And the father?”

The room goes quiet except for the soft sounds of newborn breathing and my own heartbeat.

“All three of us,” Atlas says finally.

“I can only list one name on the legal documents.”

“Then list mine,” Garrett says immediately. “I’m the one who lost a child before. I’m the one who needs this most.”

“No,” Silas argues. “I’m the youngest. I have the most years left to be their father.”

“Stop,” I interrupt before they can argue further. “Doc Morrison, what name would cause the least legal complications down the road?”

He considers this, probably running through scenarios in his mind. “Probably Atlas. He’s the eldest, most established in the community, most likely to be accepted without question.”

“Then Atlas Bishop goes on the birth certificates. But these boys have three fathers who would die for them, and that’s what matters.”

Doc Morrison nods, making notes. “Birth certificates will show Atlas Bishop as father, Ember Bishop as mother. No one needs to know the details beyond that.”

“What about uncles?” Garrett asks with a slight smile.

“Devoted uncles who are present for every milestone, every birthday, every scraped knee.” Doc Morrison grins. “This town’s seen stranger family arrangements. Nobody’s going to ask uncomfortable questions.”

As if to emphasize his point, Connor opens his eyes and looks directly at Silas, who immediately starts singing again. Caleb turns his head toward Garrett’s voice when he speaks softly about all the things he wants to teach them.

“They know,” I realize. “They already know who their fathers are.”

“Bien s?r,” Silas says. “They’ve been listening to our voices, feeling our hands on your belly, learning our scents. We’re not strangers to them.”

“We’re home,” Atlas adds, his voice rough with emotion. “All of us. Finally home.”

Outside, the sun is rising over Wolf Pike, painting the mountains in shades of gold and pink. A new day, a new family, a new chapter in the life we’ve built together from chaos and love and the kind of stubbornness that refuses to accept that some things are impossible.

Connor and Caleb Bishop sleep peacefully on my chest, surrounded by three fathers who will protect them, teach them, and love them.

We’re unconventional. We’re complicated. We’re likely to confuse the heck out of teachers, coaches, and anyone else who tries to understand our family structure.