Page 19 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
Everyone seems to know exactly what they're doing. They have nurseries planned, baby showers scheduled, partners who attend birthing classes and discuss feeding schedules.
I have a glitter-covered storefront and a pile of onesies I bought on clearance.
But I also have a name.
Orry.
It comes to me at three AM during month eight, when I can't sleep because the baby's using my bladder as a trampoline. I'm lying in bed, hands on my stomach, feeling the little thumps and rolls that mean he's awake too.
Orry.
Short for Orion, maybe. Or just Orry, because it sounds friendly and strong and like someone who won't let the world push him around. Or maybe the first two letters in orc.
My son.
The reality hits me sideways. I'm having a son. A half-orc baby boy who's going to have his father's eyes, maybe his smile, definitely some combination of our features that I can't predict.
And I'm going to raise him alone.
The thought doesn't scare me as much as it should. I've been alone before. Alone's familiar. Comfortable, even.
But lying there in the dark, feeling Orry kick against my ribs, I let myself imagine something different.
What if Ridge had stayed?
What if I'd woken up that morning and he'd still been there, rumpled and sleepy and interested in more than just one night?
What if I'd asked his real name?
The questions circle like moths around a lamp, useless and persistent.
I push them away and focus on what I can control.
Orry's room, really just a corner of my bedroom with a crib and a changing table.
My birth plan, hospital, epidural, as much medical intervention as they'll give me.
My business—streamlined, organized, ready to run on autopilot for at least six weeks while I figure out this whole motherhood thing.
I can do this.
Iwilldo this.
And if Ridge, whoever he really is, ever shows up looking for answers?
I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Preferably while holding our son and looking like I've had more than three hours of sleep.
Orry arrives two weeks early,during a rainstorm that knocks out power to half the plaza.
Typical.
Labor starts at four AM. By noon, I'm in a hospital bed, gripping the rails and reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment.
"You're doing great," the nurse says, which is what everyone says when you're clearlynotdoing great.
I want to ask for drugs. More drugs. All the drugs they have.
