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CHAPTER NINE

Everly

Hospital beds are designed by someone who's never had to sleep in one.

That's my first thought as I wake up, back aching, neck stiff from the weird angle.

My second thought is that Regnor's still here.

He's slumped in the chair beside my bed, one hand still holding mine, the other resting on his thigh near his gun.

Even exhausted, even sleeping, he's on guard, protecting us.

"You're staring," he murmurs without opening his eyes.

"How did you?—"

"Your breathing changed." Now his eyes open, immediately alert, even if exhaustion is written in every line of his face. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I slept in a hospital bed," I admit. "But okay. I think."

"Any pain? Cramping?"

"No. Just..." I shift carefully, mindful of the IV. "Sore. And I really need to pee."

He's up immediately, helping me sit up slowly. "Dizzy?"

"A little."

"That's normal. Blood loss plus pregnancy equals low blood pressure." He steadies me as I swing my legs over the side. "Take it slow."

I make it to the bathroom with his help, grateful for the dignity of managing this myself.

When I come out, he's stripping the sheets from the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"You bled through a little in the night," he says matter-of-factly. "Didn't want you to see it and panic."

My throat tightens. "You didn't have to?—"

"Yeah, I did." He's already remaking the bed with fresh sheets the nurse must have brought. "This is what we do, Everly. We take care of each other."

I ease back into bed, watching him work.

His movements are efficient but gentle, this big, dangerous man performing such a domestic task.

"We need to talk," I say quietly. "About what happens next."

He finishes with the sheets, then sits on the bed beside me. "With the baby?"

"With Dylan."

His expression darkens. "What about him?"

"He's not going to just disappear, Regnor. He's lost his protection, his connection to the Patriot. That makes him desperate."

"Which is good. Desperate men make mistakes."

"They also do dangerous things." I pick at the blanket. "What if he goes after Bjorn? Or shows up at the fire station again? Or?—"

"Hey." He takes my hand, stilling my nervous movements. "Look at me."

I do, finding his dark eyes intense but calm.

He gets up, crosses to the door, and shuts it firmly.

When he returns, his voice is low, certain.

"The club will handle him," he says simply. "He'll never hurt you again. Never touch you. Never come near our baby."

"You can't just—" The tears come without warning. "You're doing so much already. More than you need to. This isn't your mess to clean up."

"The fuck it isn't." He grabs my hand, grip firm but gentle. "I'm doing as much as any old man would. You're mine, Everly. That baby's mine. Anyone who threatens you threatens me."

"But—"

"No buts." His thumb brushes over my knuckles. "Dylan made his choices. Now he deals with the consequences."

"What kind of consequences?"

"The permanent kind."

The words should scare me.

Should make me protest, argue for mercy or justice or whatever.

Instead, all I feel is relief.

"When?"

"Soon. When the moment's right. When he thinks he's safe." Regnor's expression is carved from stone. "Men like him always think they're smarter than everyone else. That arrogance will be his downfall."

A knock interrupts us.

"Come in," I call, and Dr. Sims enters with a smile.

"Good morning. How are we feeling today?"

"Better," I admit. "The bleeding seems to have stopped."

"Excellent. Let's take a look." She checks my chart, reviews the overnight notes. "Your numbers look good. Blood pressure's a bit low, but that's expected. Any cramping?"

"No."

"Good. I think we can get you home today, as long as you understand the bed rest requirements."

"I understand."

"I mean it," she emphasizes. "Modified bed rest means lying down most of the day. You can get up for bathroom breaks, brief showers, moving from bed to couch. That's it. No cooking, no cleaning, no lifting anything heavier than a cup of tea."

"For how long?"

"Minimum two weeks. Then we'll do another ultrasound, see how the hemorrhage looks." She makes notes in my chart. "Do you have someone who can help? This isn't something you can do alone."

"She's got me," Regnor says immediately. "And our entire family."

Dr. Sims nods approvingly. "Good. Support makes all the difference. I'll get your discharge paperwork started. Should have you out of here by noon."

After she leaves, reality hits me.

Two weeks minimum of lying around, dependent on others for everything.

For someone used to taking care of herself, saving others, being active—it feels like a prison sentence.

"Where am I going to go?" I ask. "My apartment?—"

"Is off limits," Regnor finishes. "Dylan knows where it is. You're coming back to the clubhouse."

"Your room isn't exactly set up for someone on bed rest."

"Then we'll set it up. Get a better bed, comfortable chair, whatever you need." He cups my face. "This is not negotiable, Everly. You're staying where I can protect you."

"Okay," I whisper.

"Good girl."

The morning passes in a blur of discharge paperwork and instructions.

A nurse removes my IV, checks my vitals one more time.

Regnor helps me change into the clothes Mom brought—soft leggings and one of his t-shirts that hangs loose over my slightly swollen belly.

"Ready?" he asks as a nurse appears with a wheelchair.

"I can walk?—"

"Hospital policy," the nurse says cheerfully. "All patients leave in a wheelchair."

I submit to the indignity, letting them wheel me through the hospital.

Regnor stays close, one hand on my shoulder, protective and possessive.

The ride to the clubhouse is careful, Regnor driving one of the club trucks like he's transporting fine china.

"I'm not going to break," I tell him as he takes a turn at approximately two miles per hour.

"Humor me," he replies. "I've got precious cargo."

The clubhouse is quiet when we arrive—most of the guys probably sleeping off last night's mission.

But Mom's waiting, along with Astrid and several other women.

"Careful," Mom fusses as Regnor helps me from the truck. "Are you sure you should be walking?"

"It's ten feet to the door," I say, but I'm leaning heavily on Regnor by the time we make it inside.

Turns out even minimal blood loss makes you weaker than expected.

"We've spruced up Regnor's room a bit," Charm announces. "Got a pregnancy pillow, extra blankets, books, tablet for movies. Anything else you need?"

"This is too much?—"

"This is what we do," Mom cuts me off. "Now come on, let's get you settled."

Regnor's room has been transformed.

The basic bed has been supplemented with multiple pillows, soft blankets, a small fridge stocked with ginger ale and crackers.

There's even a comfortable chair beside the bed for visitors.

"Wow," I breathe.

"The ladies worked on it all morning," Regnor says, helping me to the bed. "Wanted you to be comfortable."

I ease onto the bed, surprised by how exhausted the simple trip has made me.

"This is going to be harder than I thought," I admit.

"What is?" Astrid asks, fluffing pillows behind me.

"Being helpless. Letting people take care of me."

"You're not helpless," Mom says firmly. "You're growing a human. That's literally the opposite of helpless."

"Doesn't feel that way when I can't even make my own tea."

"That's what we're for," Astrid says. "Speaking of which—tea? Crackers? Soup?"

"Just water for now," I say, still fighting slight nausea.

As Mom and Charm fuss with the room setup, Astrid perches on the bed beside me.

"How are you really?" she asks quietly. "This has to be scary."

"Terrifying," I admit. "Not just the bleeding. Everything. Dylan, the pregnancy,"

"Hey." She glances around, trying to make sure our conversation is private. "Everything is going to work out, I promise."

"Is it though? Or is he just stuck because he made a promise?"

"You didn't see him last night," she says. "Geirolf told me. When he got the call about you being in the hospital? He went white. Literally white. That's not purely obligation, Everly. That's love."

"You might be right," I murmur.

"Definitely. Trust me, I know what a man in love looks like." She squeezes my hand. "The rest is just details."

Somehow, the morning drifts into the afternoon before my eyes.

I doze off between visitors, submitting myself to regular check-ins from the women.

Mom brings soup I can barely eat.

Charm updates me on club gossip.

Even Ingrid stops by, awkward but trying to make me feel at home.

She’s just a teenager, though. She doesn’t understand the complexities of all this.

"Bjorn sends his love," she says. "He wanted to come, but... the wheelchair doesn't do great with the stairs here."

"Tell him I love him too," I say. "And that I'm sorry I haven't visited more."

"He understands. We all do." She fidgets with her phone. "Is it true? About Dylan working with the Patriot?"

"Yeah," I admit. "It's true."

"That fucker," she breathes. "After everything he put you through, he was also?—"

"Language," Mom warns from the doorway.

Mom might not be her mother, but Ingrid respects her just the same.

"Sorry. But seriously, what a piece of shit."

I can't help but laugh. "Yeah, that about covers it."

The afternoon sun is slanting through the window when commotion erupts outside.

All I hear are raised voices and motorcycle engines, getting louder and louder.

I try to sit up, but Regnor appears in the doorway. "What's happening?"

"Stay put," he orders. "Club business."

"What kind of?—"

"Dylan's here."

My blood freezes. " What? "

"Showed up at the gate. Says he wants to make a deal." Regnor's expression is murderous. "Has information he'll trade for safe passage."

"You can't?—"

"I'm not doing anything yet. Runes and Fenrir are handling it." He crosses to me, sits on the bed. "But I need you to stay here. Stay calm. He doesn't know you're back from the hospital."

"What if he?—"

"He won't get past the gate." His hand finds mine. "Trust me."

I want to argue, to demand to know what's happening, but another voice cuts through.

"I'll stay with her," Mom says from the doorway. "Go handle what needs handling."

Regnor kisses my forehead, then stands. "I'll be back."

"Be careful," I call after him. "He's dangerous."

He pauses at the door, looks back with a smile that's all predator. "He's not nearly as dangerous as I am."

Then he's gone, leaving Mom and me in tense silence.

"He'll be fine," she says, settling into the chair beside my bed. "They all will."

"Dylan's desperate," I say. "Desperate people do stupid things."

"Good thing our boys specialize in handling stupid."

I know I shouldn’t smile at that, but I am.

We wait in silence, straining to hear what's happening outside.

Occasional shouts, engines revving, but nothing clear.

"This is killing me," I admit after twenty minutes. "Not knowing."

"Welcome to being an ol’ lady," Mom says. "Half our lives are spent waiting while they handle the dangerous stuff."

"How do you stand it?"

"By remembering that they're very good at what they do." She takes my hand. "And by keeping each other company while we wait."

"What do you think Dylan wants?"

"Probably trying to save his hide. Offer information in exchange for protection." She shrugs. "Won't work. Not after everything he's done."

"He knows things," I say quietly. "About the club, about operations. He could cause real damage if he goes to the cops."

"You think Runes hasn't thought of that?" Mom's smile is sharp. "Your father and the others aren't amateurs, honey. They've been doing this longer than you've been alive."