Page 10

10

HONOR

The scratchy sheets and stiff mattress tell me I’m in a hospital before I even open my eyes. But I should know that for another reason. My baby.

For a second, panic twists in my chest. I’m ready to throw off these blankets and run to the nursery, stitches be damned. But then I turn my head, and there she is.

The tiniest human I’ve ever seen, wrapped snug in a pale pink blanket, lying in the cot beside my bed. And just like that, the panic dissolves. Relief rushes in, so warm and overwhelming it steals my breath for a moment.

I ease myself up, wincing at the sting low on my belly where the stitches pull. The ache is there, but it fades the moment I reach for her.

“Hello, baby. Nice to meet you,” I coo, the words tumbling out as if I’ve been waiting a lifetime to say them.

I cradle her close, marveling at the perfect weight of her, the velvety softness of her skin, the delicate curve of her tiny nose. I press my lips to her forehead, and the scent of her—new and sweet—fills me with a joy I didn’t think was possible.

“Hello, Laramie.”

She stirs, her tiny breath catching in that cough-like sound babies make when they’re winding up for a cry.

“Oh no, was that wrong? I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whisper, holding her closer. I search her tiny face for clues, but she’s still protesting as much as a newborn can.

Was it me? Did I upset her? Or maybe she’s hungry.

If Mom were here, she’d know without hesitation. And Dad? He’d tell me I’m doing fine—that I’m a great mom.

A tear slips free. I’ve accepted they’re gone. I’ve told myself that a thousand times. But God, I miss them. Mom, with all her no-nonsense cop attitude, would have spelled it out for me—the what, the when, the how—and she’d have been right. She always was. And Dad? He’d have held me, gentle and reassuring, his easygoing warmth settling my nerves.

I place Laramie back in the cot, fumbling with the hospital gown. The snap buttons at the front make it easier than I expect, but it still feels like a lifetime before I’m ready. By then, her cry is in full swing, small but insistent. Her determination is a stark reminder of how much she needs me.

If I were on a boat, I’d be sinking by now. But then, like a buoy in the storm, Dad’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts: “You’ve got this, Skipper.”

The laugh-cry bursts out of me before I can help it. I feel him, like he’s right here. I scoop Laramie back up, and as soon as her tiny body presses against mine, the connection is there, as if it never left. It has to be teamwork—me and her, captain and crew, figuring it out as we go.

“I know, baby. I’m figuring this out too,” I murmur, guiding her to feed. The moment she latches on, I feel an almost surreal attachment, like my body knows exactly what to do even if I don’t.

They say there’s no manual for raising a child, but every mother is equipped. I didn’t fully understand that until now.

As she settles into the rhythm of feeding, her tiny hand resting against me, my heart swells with a fierce, protective love. Laramie wasn’t planned, but she’s mine in a way that nothing else ever will be.

“They say diamonds are forever,” I whisper, my voice small. “But they’re wrong. Forever is this. You and me.” I pause, feeling the weight of the words settle over us like a promise. “No one will ever come between us. Not ever.”

I watch her suckling, her tiny cheeks working like she’s already got this life thing figured out.

“But hey, that doesn’t mean diamonds are off the table,” I murmur, a quiet laugh escaping me. “You buy your own diamonds, baby girl. No man needed.”

I pause, thinking about the future. “And if, if there’s a man who’s actually worth it—like really worth it—then maybe, just maybe, you can think about saying yes.”

I smile down at her, already certain she’ll never settle for less.

Taking a moment, I glance around the room. It’s surprisingly posh for a hospital in Bozeman. The bouquet of summer blooms catches my eye again, bright and fresh on the side table. I lean closer to read the card. It’s from the hospital. Pretty generous—whoever’s footing the bill for this room must’ve made sure no detail was overlooked.

The nurse enters, cheerful and efficient. As she walks in, I catch a glimpse of a figure by the door, his broad shoulders briefly framed before he turns his head toward me. It’s barely a second, but an unwelcome jolt runs through me.

I look away, my pulse leaping. I haven’t forgotten about him. Chase Samson . And I definitely shouldn’t be feeling this way just from catching a half-second glimpse of that man.

“You’re up,” the nurse says, her face lighting up as she notices Laramie nursing. “That’s wonderful to see.”

“Yeah,” I reply, keeping my voice steady, though my emotions still swirl under the surface.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, her tone gentle but attentive.

“A little sore and stiff, but I’m fine,” I answer honestly, shifting Laramie slightly in my arms.

“You do look better than most, Ms. Deveraux. We do encourage mothers to stand and move around after a C-section, but you might want to wait a little longer before pushing yourself,” the nurse says with a kind smile, already stepping forward to help. “Let’s get you settled back in bed.”

She moves with ease, one hand steadying my arm while the other hovers protectively near Laramie.

“Nice and easy,” she murmurs, syncing her steps with mine. Somehow, she maneuvers me onto the mattress without disturbing Laramie, who nurses peacefully, oblivious to the shift.

Honestly, I didn’t even register being on my feet until I feel the bed beneath me. A smile warms my face—must be the baby magic, guiding me with a mother’s instinct straight to my little one.

The nurse reaches for the bed controls, raising the headrest to a comfortable angle. “There we go,” she says, smoothing the blanket over my legs. “Much better for sitting up.”

She then coos at Laramie, her eyes softening as she takes in her tiny features. “What a beautiful little girl,” she murmurs, inspecting her with the awe of someone who does this daily but still finds wonder in every newborn.

“You’re doing great,” she assures me, her tone kind and encouraging. “Feeding like this is the best start you can give her.”

She hovers for a moment, checking my vitals and noting something down on her chart before focusing back on Laramie. “There’s a man outside, guarding this room. He’s your bodyguard, isn’t he?”

Bodyguard? The word feels as out of place in the maternity ward as a combat helmet at a baby shower. But I answer anyway, “Yes, he is.”

“Good. My supervisor was planning to confirm it with you, but I’ll let her know you’ve already told me,” she says, a touch of amusement in her voice. “He seems to take his duty very seriously.”

I glance at the closed door, picturing Chase still standing there. “It’s his job,” I say simply, though the words feel incomplete.

But they’ll have to do. No one else needs to know how tangled this has become. In fact, no one does. Not even him. Chase Samson—a killer, a savior, or simply a bodyguard, whatever he truly is. He was the first person to show me what safety feels like when my world imploded. When everything I thought I knew crumbled, he was there. The eye of the storm, yes, but also the one constant that told me I wouldn’t be hurt—not while he was there. That feeling hasn’t left me since. And today, he’s proven it all over again.

I hate that it’s him. I hate it because I can’t imagine anyone else standing guard on the other side of that door. And more than that—I don’t want it to be anyone else.

The nurse observes Laramie, unaware of the thoughts in my head. “When you feel her sucking more slowly, pausing frequently, or stopping altogether, that usually means she’s full,” she explains with a patient smile.

I nod, storing the information away.

“Would you like us to call anyone for you?” she asks gently, though her tone carries a trace of curiosity. A single mother with only a bodyguard present during childbirth isn’t exactly routine.

“No,” I reply quickly, hoping to shut that door before it swings open.

“Okay. As long as you’re sure,” she says. Her tone remains kind, but there’s just enough weight in her words to make me wonder what’s running through her head.

When Laramie finishes feeding, the nurse steps in. She swathes Laramie in the hospital’s blanket, folding and tucking with the kind of precision that makes the whole thing look effortless.

“Now that’s something you’ll need to teach me,” I say, eyeing how snug and perfect the blanket is around Laramie.

“Happy to!” she chirps. She places Laramie back in the cot, her eyes fluttering closed, her face serene as she drifts off.

“Do you always provide rooms like this?” I ask, my gaze drifting to the cot, and then the enormous bouquet at the side table.

The nurse steps toward the window, her hands brushing the curtain. “May I?”

“Go ahead.”

She draws them open, sunlight spilling into the room, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “This is the biggest room we have, the one closest to all services. Your bodyguard requested it—and let’s just say he has a way of getting what he wants.”

Of course, he did. Chase Samson always seems to find a way to get things done, whether it’s kicking down doors or arranging for a room like this. It should make me feel annoyed—this isn’t helping my attempt to keep that man at bay—but instead, a strange warmth sneaks in, settling in the space he occupies in my mind.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll let you have some quiet time,” the nurse says, lingering at the door.

“Thank you, nurse.”

But as the door begins to open, my breath catches seeing Chase. Reminding how close the man I’ve been trying to shoo away in my head is. Has he even moved? I mean, I want him close for my and Laramie’s safety, but not to my mind, my heart, and my everything else!

But—

Before I can overthink it, I call out, “Wait.”

The nurse halts mid-step and turns back.

“Could you ask my bodyguard to come in?” I request.

The nurse doesn’t even have to turn around. She gives Chase a small nod before slipping out, leaving the door ajar.

Chase steps into the room, looking out of place but endearing at the same time. A man his size, his presence, doesn’t belong in this world of pastel blankets and newborn cries, but there’s something about the way he carries himself—like he’d bulldoze through walls to keep this fragile bubble intact—that makes it work.

He hesitates at the door for a beat, his eyes scanning the room before landing on me. “You called?” he says.

The force he carries is potent—intensely male. It’s unfamiliar, even with a life surrounded by men like him. It feels dangerously electric, leaving my body utterly defenseless.

I pull myself together. “Yeah. Don’t just stand there like you’re guarding a vault.”

He chuckles, stepping closer, and I notice the awkward way he glances at Laramie, as if she’s the most intimidating thing he’s ever seen. For all his strength and skill, there’s a gentleness about him now, a kind of awe that feels disarming.

“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice low, careful, like he’s testing the waters.

“Yeah,” I reply, my gaze drifting to Laramie, then back to him. “Thanks for this.” I gesture vaguely toward the room, the flowers, all of it.

Chase shrugs, his posture casual but his eyes steady on mine. “The least I could do.” He hesitates for a beat before adding, “Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Mr. Samson,” I say, half-teasing, half-formal, because I’m not sure how else to respond.

“I’d prefer Chase,” he says with a faint smile. “Like the first time you called me that.”

“Did I?”

“You did.” The smile lingers, subtle but sincere.

When? Where? It doesn’t matter!

“Wow, what a view,” he says, staring out the window. “Not bad for a hospital.”

I haven’t looked myself, but I believe him. A snarky comment like ‘you paid for it’ hovers on the tip of my tongue, but I let it go.

Finally he glances toward the cot, the pink blanket draped over the edge catching his eye. “Lots of pink,” he comments, his tone somewhere between neutral observation and genuine curiosity.

“Yes,” I say, watching him carefully. “It’s a girl.”

He nods, and something shifts in his expression—warmth, pride even—but he stays rooted where he is, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to be part of this moment. His stillness contrasts with the questions in his eyes, as if he wants to ask, to know more, but doesn’t know if he has the right.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, his voice almost reverent.

I take a breath, hesitating before asking about the boy I’ve sworn to protect. “Oakley. Is he safe?”

“He’s safe,” Chase replies, his voice reassuring. “He’s still with Ethan. Mira’s been trying to get to him, but Ethan is keeping him at arm’s length. And Mark Connor—Ethan’s dad and my boss—he doesn’t let anything slip past him.”

I nod, relief mingling with the unease I still feel. “And Mira? She hasn’t pulled any stunts?” I know that woman too well. She wouldn’t dare cross Damon, but to everyone else, she’d act like she was him.

Chase’s expression hardens. “She’s threatening to sue Red Mark.”

I stiffen at his words. “Sue? Can she even do that?”

“She can try,” he says with a wry smile. “But we’re more than ready to defend the case. We’ve got hospital records and other evidence that corroborate what she and Damon did to Oakley. If she wants a fight, she’s picked the wrong people.”

I exhale, the weight on my chest easing. “So Oakley will never go back to the Stones?”

“We intend to keep it that way,” he says firmly. “Oakley deserves better, and we’ll make sure he gets it.”

I nod, gratitude welling up. “Thank you.”

Chase shifts, almost like my words unsettle him. “You don’t have to thank me, Hon—” He stops, correcting himself quickly, “—Ms. Deveraux.”

“Honor is fine,” I say, arching a brow, teasing him silently for the slip.

His sideways smile is reluctant, tinged with self-annoyance. “Honor. It’s... it’s just the right thing to do.”

The room settles into stillness, but my thoughts refuse to follow. “Did that bastard ever try to take my baby?” My eyes drift to Laramie, peacefully sleeping. “I mean her dad.”

Saying out loud that Damon Stone is Laramie’s dad feels wrong. He fathered her, but it doesn’t mean that he’s her father. The distinction is absolute. I’ve vowed to keep that man as far as possible from my baby, and I’ll never waver on that.

“No.” Chase hesitates, his jaw tightening before he amends, “Actually, yes.”

I hold my breath, a dull ache flaring. Whatever happened while I was asleep, I didn’t sense anything was amiss when I woke up.

“Not Stone himself—one of his lackeys,” he adds.

“Of course. Damon wouldn’t dirty his hands,” I mutter. I’ve always known he’d try to claim my baby; it’s just a matter of when. Now, here we are. “And you stood up for me?”

“Something like that.” Chase’s response is short, but there’s more behind those three words than he’s letting on. “He thought he was looking for a baby boy.”

I scoff, lifting my eyes to meet his. “I told Damon what he wanted to hear so he’d leave me alone. He wanted to name the baby after himself. Well, he can go straight to hell!”

“He won’t get near your baby. And he won’t get near you. I swear.”

The steadiness in his voice soothes me, even if only slightly. “I need to rest,” I murmur, letting exhaustion finally catch up to me while deliberately putting some distance between us. His presence is starting to feel unsettlingly natural.

“Sure.” Chase nods and turns on his heel like a soldier following orders.

As if on cue, the sting from my stitches shoots through me, making me wince and coil.

“Hey, you okay?” He’s beside me like his stride was three yard long. All this time he was lingering at the foot of my bed. But true to his nature, when his help is called, he’s there in an instant.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” I lie, though my voice gives me away.

“If you want to sleep, you might want to lower the headrest,” he suggests

“Please.”

Chase works the control. “Say when.”

“When.”

“Better?”

His smile eases the sting in my belly, but it leaves a different kind of ache behind.

I push it aside. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He steps back, ready to leave, but something about his posture falters. There’s a hesitation, a pause heavy with words he doesn’t say. A request, perhaps?

“Laramie,” I murmur, stopping him just as he reaches the door. “Her name is Laramie.”

He turns, and for the first time, his expression shifts into something fragile and unguarded. His smile is small but genuine, a quiet moment of connection that catches me off guard. It’s as if, in hearing her name from me, he’s earned a piece of something sacred. And just like that, the air between us changes.

How did I let myself get here?

Feelings? Who ordered those?

Certainly not me.