Page 8 of Always My Fate

The doctor met his intense stare steadily. “Rest is the priority. We’ll give you detailed instructions before discharge. You’ve got a strong support system—I saw several of your...associates in the waiting area. Lean on them. This isn’t something to handle alone.”

Blackie nodded once, sharp and decisive, even as raw fear clawed at his insides. “We got this. No half measures.” He looked down at Peaches, eyes fierce and full of promise. “You hear that, sweetheart? We’re locking this down tight. Your ass stays in that bed like it’s glued there. I’ll haul your ass everywhere if I have to. No arguments. I love you too much to lose either of you.”

Peaches gave him a tired but genuine smile, squeezing his hand. “I promise not to argue with you about the changes, baby. We’re in this together.”

The doctor left with a final nod, promising to check back soon. Blackie stayed right where he was—chair pulled close, one hand clasped tight with hers—whispering every fierce vow he could think of into the quiet room.

He’d tear the world apart and burn it to the ground before he let anything take them from him.

***

The ride home from the hospital felt longer than the urgent sprint there. Blackie kept one hand on the wheel of the truck and the other reaching across the console to rest on Peaches’ thigh, grounding himself in the warmth of her. She was quiet, but every few minutes she would squeeze his fingers, letting him know she was still with him.

When they finally pulled into the driveway, he faced the potholes populating the dirt track. “Dammit, I need to get a prospect out to level the drive.” Peaches laughed softly. He rolled along slowly before he parked in front of the house. He cut the engine and came around to her side before she could even unbuckle. “I got you, honey,” he said, voice low and gruff. He lifted her carefully, one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, transporting her like she was made of the finest glass. Because to him, she was.

Peaches rested her head against his shoulder, heavy, dark curls brushing his jaw. “You don’t have to carry me everywhere, Kirk.”

“Like hell I don’t,” he muttered, nudging the front door open with his boot. “Doctor said bed rest and minimal movement. That means your ass stays off the ground unless I say otherwise. End of discussion, woman.”

He carried her straight to their bedroom, the house quiet except for the soft creak of the floorboards under his boots. Some of the old ladies had come by earlier and left everything ready—fresh sheets, water on the nightstand, a light meal in the fridge for when the kids got home. They’d been over at Rook’s place, probably driving his old lady crazy with their shenanigans. Blackie made a mental note to thank them later. Right now, all that mattered was getting Peaches settled.

He eased her onto the bed, propped pillows behind her back, and pulled the blankets up over her legs. Once she was comfortable, he sat on the edge of the mattress, smiling at her. She took his hand and placed it on her belly, and together they felt the baby shifting under their hands. Blackie closed his eyes for a long second, breathing through the lingering fear.

“You scared the absolute fuck outta me today, Peaches,” he whispered, voice cracking slightly. “Thought I was gonna lose you both. After what we’ve been through, I can’t go through losin’ you. Not now. Not ever. Surely not when we got another bun in the oven. Plus our buns runnin’ around all day.”

Peaches reached up, threading her fingers through his beard and tugging him closer until their foreheads touched. “I was afraid too,” she admitted softly. “But we’re here. We’re okay. This little one is a fighter—just like his daddy. And like his momma, who’s been knocked down more times than she cares to count and still got back up.”

Blackie let out a shaky breath, his hand cradling her belly. “I don’t deserve everything you’re giving me, you know? A woman like you. All these kids. A real family. After all the blood on my hands, all the shit I’ve done, well, it feels like I’m stealin’ something good. But I’m grabbin’ it anyway. I’m gonna be better for you. For all of you. No runnin’. No holdin’ back. I’m all in, darlin’.”

Tears shimmered in Peaches’ green eyes as she stroked his cheek. “You already are better, Blackie. You’ve been my second chance since the day Slate forced me to acknowledge how much I loved you and that I needed to get you back into my life. We both got a second chance. We already know it’s a long-lived chance, because we’ve got the kids and gray hairs to prove it. And we’re not wasting it. These babies, our kiddos, they’re proof of that.”

He leaned down and kissed her slowly, reverently, pouring every ounce of love, fear, and his fierce promise into it. When he pulled back, his voice was thick. “I’m gonna be right here, baby. Every day. You need anything like water, food, or just me cursin’ at the walls, you say it. Speak it into existence because I’ve got you. I got all of you.”

Peaches smiled, tired but real, and tugged him down beside her. Blackie stretched out carefully, wrapping his body around hers protectively, stroking her hair from her face before leaning closer for a slow, delicious kiss.

In the quiet of their bedroom, with the weight of the scare still lingering, Blackie held tight to his woman and chance he never thought he’d get. He wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever.

***

Blackie stayed stretched out beside Peaches long after her breathing evened into sleep, one arm wrapped protectively around her. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that usually brought him peace. Tonight, it left too much room for his mind to run wild.

He stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, replaying the doctor’s words. High-risk. Premature birth. Seizures. Complications. Every one of them felt like a knife twisting in his gut. The thought of losing her—or their child—hit different than any potential loss ever had. The idea twisted in deeper. Meaner.

His mind slipped backward, the way it could when fear got its hooks in him.

Years earlier, the Longview clubhouse had smelled like blood and gunpowder.

Blackie stormed through the front door with three other brothers on his heels, boots pounding across the hardwood. The raid on a rival stash house had gone sideways fast. They’d expected a handful of low-level shitheads. Instead, they’d walked into an ambush.

“Where’s Trick?” Blackie roared, voice raw as he scanned the main room. The young patch had been right behind him when the shooting started.

Oaky’s face was pale as he helped drag a different wounded brother through the door. “He caught one bad, Prez. Real bad.”

Trick came in on the next wave of returnees, held up only by Duane’s shoulder. They’d laid him out on the pool table. The kid was barely twenty-three, cocky as hell but loyal to the bone. Blood soaked through his shirt, pooling on the green felt. Blackie leaned over him, pressing both hands hard against the wound.

“Stay with me, you little shit,” he’d growled, voice cracking. “You hear me? Don’t you fuckin’ die on me, Trick. We got plans, brother. You’re supposed to be at my table one day.”

Trick’s eyes had fluttered open for a second, hazy with pain. “T-told you...I’d have your back, Prez...” A wet cough, more blood. “Always...”