Page 102 of Victorious: Part 3

He waggles his brows. “Is that code, or?”

They take off, and slowly the room starts to clear as everyone trickles out, but Loki makes his way up to Haven and me, furrowing his brows, and already I know what he’s going to say.

We just celebrated our win.

Now we have to deal with the losses.

“We have to tell Ingrid about Hurricane,” I tell him before he says anything, and he nods.

Haven snaps her head to me, her eyes widening. “What about Hurricane?” she barks.

All the excitement of winning over Javier soon evaporates, and I wrap my arms around Haven and Poppy. “C’mon, let’s go. I’ll tell you all about it.”

Chapter Nineteen

SOUTH

The clubroom feels smaller than it should. Maybe it’s the weight of everything that just happened, or maybe it’s the way my ribs scream with every breath I take, but the walls seem to press in around us.

The familiar hum of brothers unwinding after a mission fills the space. Low voices, the clink of beer bottles, the chime of pool balls smacking against each other. Normal sounds that feel anything but normal tonight.

I’m slumped in one of the worn leather chairs, my body a map of pain. Every muscle aches, every bruise throbs, and the gash along my forearm burns where Lock stitched it up with more skill than enthusiasm. But none of that matters right now. Not when Ingrid is here, safe, with our son.

She’s standing beside my chair, Louis balanced on her hip like he weighs nothing. At one year old, he’s getting heavy, but Ingrid makes it look effortless. She always does. Her free hand hovers over the bandage on my shoulder, not quite touching, like she’s afraid she’ll hurt me even more.

“You need to be more careful,” she murmurs, her voice carrying that tone that’s part worry, part frustration, but all love. “These cuts are deeper than they should be. You should have gone to the hospital.”

I catch her wrist gently, my thumb brushing over her pulse point. “I’m fine, Angel. The doc patched me up good enough.”

“Good enough isn’t good enough, South.” Her eyes are fierce, protective, and always loving. “You have a family now. You can’t just—”

“I know.” The words come out rougher than I intend,exhaustion bleeding through. “I know, Ingrid. But I’m here. I’m alive. We’re all here.”

She softens at my words, her shoulders dropping. Louis makes a sleepy sound against her shoulder, and she shifts him slightly, her movements automatic. Even in the middle of lecturing me about my recklessness, she’s taking care of our boy.

“He’s been fussy all evening,” she says, smoothing down his hair. “All this chaos, people coming and going. His sleep schedule is going to be completely destroyed.”

I glance at the clock on the wall. Three-fifteen in the morning. Christ. No wonder my bones feel like they’re made of lead. “Poor little guy. This isn’t exactly baby-friendly hours.”

Ingrid’s laugh is tired but genuine. “Definitely not. We should get him to bed soon, or we’re gonna be paying for this for days.”

Louis chooses that moment to lift his head and look around the room with those wide, curious eyes he got from his mother. He’s not crying, but he’s clearly fighting sleep, his little fists rubbing at his face.

“Come here, buddy.” I hold out my arms, ignoring the pull in my shoulder. Ingrid hesitates for a second—she always does when I’m injured—but then she carefully transfers him to me.

The weight of my son in my arms is the best feeling in the world. Better than any painkiller, better than any victory. He settles against my chest, his tiny fingers gripping my cut, and for a moment, everything else fades away.

The pain, the exhaustion, the memory of tonight’s violence, it all takes a back seat to this.

“He missed you,” Ingrid says softly, her hand finding my uninjured shoulder. Her bright, gorgeous smile is lighting up like the angel she is.

“I missed him too.” I press a kiss to the top of Louis’ head, breathing in that baby smell that somehow makes everything feel right. “Missed both of you.”

Ingrid’s fingers trace along my cut, careful and gentle. “I hate when you go on these big wars. I know it’s part of the life. I know it’s important, but—”

“But you worry.”

“Of course I worry. You’re the father of my child, South. You’re my—” She stops, color rising in her cheeks, as she fights back her grin.