Page 95 of Priest

His breath stutters, hand tightening on the sheet. “Lila?”

“She helped save your life,” I say. “Both of ’em did.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. His eyes close, lashes dark against pale skin, and when he opens them again, there’s too much emotion there for a man still wired to machines.

“Figures,” he murmurs. “Always her.”

“That ain’t all,” I continue, the words pulling me forward whether I’m ready or not. I reach into my cut and pull out the folded sonogram photos, smoothing them before handing them over.

He studies the images, brow furrowing as he turns them slightly, like the answer might shift if he looks long enough. Then something clicks. His breath leaves him slow and careful.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, lifting his eyes back to mine. “She’s pregnant?”

“Eight months now,” I say, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. “My kid.”

For a second, Deacon just stares at me. Then his mouth curves, slow and genuine.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says softly. “That’s a little miracle, brother. Congrats.”

He studies the photos again, reverent in a way that makes my throat tighten. “Guess that makes me Uncle Deacon. Again. Another little one in the ranks.”

I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “It ain’t that clean.”

His eyes lift back to mine, reading the weight in my posture and the tension I haven’t bothered to hide. “What’d you do?”

I scrub a hand over my jaw. “I fucked it up. Bad. All those rules I had for her, distance, boundaries, bullshit I told myself was protection? It’s the reason she left. She thought I didn’t want a baby, and damn, she was right. At first I didn’t want kids. Then I saw her, swollen and ripe with my kid, and man, I never felt so possessive. I wanted it all. Her as my Old Lady. The baby. No rules.” My voice drops. “She flipped ’em. Now she’s got rules for me.”

His brow lifts. “Yeah?”

“If I want to be in the kid’s life,” I say. “If I want to be in hers. I gotta follow them. Prove I can show up without controlling everything.”

He shifts in the bed, careful, the movement pulling a quiet groan from his chest. When he settles again, his voice is lower and steadier.

“You want her?”

I look at him like he’s lost his damn mind. “I’ve never not wanted her, brother.”

The words hang between us, raw and unguarded.

Deacon nods slowly, something like understanding passing through his eyes. “Then you follow the rules,” he says. “You show up. You quit wearin’ ’em like armor.”

I don’t answer right away. The truth is, I’ve spent my whole life building walls and calling it leadership. Now the thing that scares me most isn’t losing control. It’s losing her.

Deacon shifts again, jaw tightening as pain flares and fades. When his eyes come back to mine, there’s no accusation in them. Just familiarity. He knows my habits. Knows the way I disappear behind control when things get too close.

“It’s time you tell her,” he says.

“Tell her what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he means.

He studies me for a beat, his face pale under the hospital lights, voice quieter when he answers. “Where those rules came from.”

I don’t respond.

“The parts you locked down,” he continues, “because you were scared of what you’d turn into if you didn’t.”

That hits closer.

“You didn’t close yourself off because you’re cold,” Deacon says. “You did it because you saw what happens when a man like Joker gets power, makes a family, gets people he thinks belong to him.”