“It’s come from me needing to know everything so I can take care of you. And as far as me being in danger, I wasn’t, and I’m not. Get that thought out of your head.”
Her brows arch. “You came home nearly three weeks ago with a knife wound you had to stitch yourself because you couldn’t go to the hospital. If that’s not being in danger, I don’t know what the fuck is.”
I’ve been waiting for this conversation. I knew Birdie was sitting on it, and worrying over it. If we weren’t in the middle of IVF, I’m certain she would have brought it up sooner. “I was caught off guard that night. Shit like that doesn’t happen often.”
“Look, I know we don’t talk about club stuff, and I don’t want to, but you need to realise I can handle knowing when shit is bad. A heads-up is all I need, because being confronted with something like you coming home bleeding and wounded like that when I’m not prepared for it is worse than being confronted with something I’m mentally ready for.”
Fuck, she’s right. I’ve been trying to shield her from club threats, not wanting to cause her unnecessary worry, but I should have been preparing her instead. Birdie is the kind of person who needs time to think shit over, to plan for it. Rolling onto my side, I prop myself up on my elbow and reach for her hand. “You’re right. The club does have some shit going on that could grow worse, but I’m working hard to resolve that. I take as many precautions as I can to protect myself and everyone tied to the club. We’ve got eyes and ears everywhere, which usually alerts me to threats. Sometimes, like when I came home that time, those precautions fail. But that’s the exception, not the norm. In future, I’ll give you a heads-up when you need it.”
She squeezes my hand. “Thank you. And I’ll keep you up to date with what I’ve got going on even if I think it’ll mess with your concentration.” Then, smiling, she adds, “Look at us getting all good at this communication business. It’s only taken us how many years?”
“Too many. So tell me how you’re feeling today? You don’t look crash hot. And how did your ultrasound go?”
“I’m super tired on these drugs, and the bloating started today. Actually, today’s been the absolute worst since I started. Between the headaches, the cramping, and now this bloating, I feel like shit. And I just want to sleep all day. The doctor said everything is looking good. She didn’t adjust my dosage or anything. She did tell me to prepare for this bloating to get worse, though.”
“How about we give you this injection, get some food into you, and then spend the night in here? You can sleep while I watch TV.”
She bends her face to mine and kisses me. “That sounds like my idea of heaven.”
It sounds like mine, too. The thought of having my woman in my arms again is what’s kept me going this week, and I intend to spend tonight not letting her go.
11
Birdie
* * *
Goddamn, where is it? I rifle through my wardrobe searching for my favourite pink scarf. I was sure I’d put it in here after wearing it last week, but for the life of me, I can’t find it.
“Birdie,” Winter’s voice sounds from the bedroom, “we need to leave in five minutes. Are you ready?”
Jesus, he’s been giving me countdowns for the last fifteen minutes; I’m over them. Like, if he gives me another one, I’m going to punch him in the face.
Calm down.
You’re not going to punch your husband.
Yes, I fucking am.
“Birdie.” He joins me in the walk-in robe. “Did you hear me?”
I spin to face him. “Yes, I bloody heard you! The first time, the second time, and the third time! I know we need to leave, but I can’t find my pink scarf and I need it, so we’re not leaving until I bloody find it. Make yourself useful and help me search for it.”
Don’t punch him.
Do. Not. Do. It.
His brows arch. “You’ve got a thousand other scarfs. Why do you need the pink one?”
“Oh my God, you did not just say that!” I spin back around, willing my arm to stay by my side instead of extending itself towards him. “Go away. I’ll find it myself.”
“Fucking hell, Birdie. We’re going to be late to our appointment. Just wear a different scarf.”
“Winter, if you want your balls to stay connected to your body, you’ll shut the hell up and leave. I’m not wearing a different scarf. I need this one for luck.”
I hear the long breath he exhales, and it pisses me off just as much as his countdowns. “Angel, you don’t need a scarf for luck.”
Ignoring him, I continue searching, throwing clothes here, there, and everywhere in my desperate attempt to find this scarf.