by Angel Payne
“Bean?” he echoes while unscrewing two sides of an Oreo. “That’s oddly cool.”
“Well, it’s not going to be permanent”—I toss over a don’t-even-think-about-it look—“but it fits. It was because he reminded me of a couple of mushed lima beans…when I first saw these.”
And there’s the appropriate word for the hour. Mushed scratches the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the emotion in my voice as I produce the small ultrasound pictures I’ve brought from the bedroom with me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold them back any longer, and I’m glad I didn’t. I brazenly gawk at every nuance that crosses my husband’s rugged face as he beholds our son for the very first time.
Beautiful.
He’s beautiful.
But the word barely serves the precious perfection of the moment as Reece continues staring.
And then gulps. And then harder.
And finally husks, “Holy…shit.”
I borrow his move, gulping to battle the sting that pummels the front of my skull. I refuse to turn into a blubbering mess when this moment is right in front of me for the savoring, the cherishing. I don’t even try to grab for my phone, either. A camera lens won’t be able to capture this instant. This is a treasure solely for the picture albums of our hearts.
“Gorgeous, ain’t he?”
He pushes out a brief laugh in reaction to my light quip but sobers quickly while shaking his head in obvious awe. “No. He’s beyond that.” He strokes the picture with one thumb as his mouth quavers. His eyes take on the texture of liquid lightning. “He’s just…our perfect Bean.”
I tuck into his side, rubbing my cheek along his bicep. “He’s going to be amazing.”
“He already is amazing.” He gathers me close, inhaling and then exhaling in shaky spurts.
“A little more than you think.”
I’m grateful for the subtle sarcasm I’m able to weave into the air again, gaining me traction on wrestling down my emotions. Reece, picking up on the change right away, tugs back far enough to fully view my face. His gaze is steady, his features firm. Good. I’m going to need all the help I can get for the next part of this little “chat.”
“Which was why you made the ‘executive decision’ not to tell me about him until I got home?”
Then again, maybe I don’t need the help.
I jerk back by several more inches. Examine him more thoroughly, from the tousled mess of his hair down to where his sculpted torso disappears into his black pants. He’s tried his best to wean the accusation out of his tone but isn’t so victorious with the stiffness in his stature. But I expected this, so I’m ready with a countermand. “The decision was a little selfish,” I concede. “But it was also strategic.”
He accepts my assertion—at least the start of it—with a small jog of his chin. Though he doesn’t help my concentration by prompting with his finest authoritative growl, “I’m listening.”
A huge part of me, guided by my newly clenching crotch, just wants to slide to the floor at his feet and let him hand-feed me strawberries for the next hour. But right now, it’s time to slide on my imaginary big-girl panties and address the subject at hand.
The vital subject.
“Well, you’ll be doing that for quite a long while if you’re expecting an apology,” I assert. “Because I’d do it the exact same way again. No, wait. I’d give away my right leg for the chance to watch you turn into man mush like that.”
Though he gives into a small chuckle, his gaze maintains its solemnity. Clearly, he understands now—I wasn’t going to give up the chance to watch his wonder and tears, even if it meant a longer wait—but he also knows there’s more to what I have to say. Yeah, even if he does go ahead and joke, “I like your right leg exactly where it is, thank you very much.”
“Damn good to hear,” I quip as he pulls the coveted body part across his lap. As he starts massaging my extended thigh, I add, “But I would have also given up the left one if it meant you’d get to come home before agreeing to become a walking hard drive for the Consortium’s most important documents.”
He stops the caresses. Wraps his hold tighter, imprinting his fingertips into my skin. “At the moment, we’re not talking about what I did out of necessity.”
I pull in a long breath. My shoulders drop as I expel it on a resigned sigh. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“I usually am, Bunny.”
I wiggle my leg, attempting to justify the nickname by giving his stomach a jackrabbit kick. He easily stills me by tightening his grip. The sight of his long fingers splayed against my limb in such blatant power makes me quiver in all the wrong places again. Oh, God. The horny pregnancy hormones are setting in with a vengeance.
Refocus. You don’t have a choice. He needs to hear this. “So I haven’t shared the biggest reason why I held back telling you about the baby.”
His shoulders become granite tension again—though he’s the freaking epitome of reassuring husband as he sweeps his stare up to capture mine. In the same gallant moment, he wraps his free hand around one of mine, enforcing his assurance with the gentle caress of his thumb over my knuckles. “All right, then. What is it?”
Oh, holy hell. He really does look so earnest, reminding me of Darcy just before Elizabeth takes him down by a peg or ten—the Colin Firth version, because what other version is there?—which makes me swoon and cringe at once, because now I have to be Elizabeth. “Well…okay.” I reclaim my leg, as if that’s going to help anything. “Mr. Richards—”
“Oh.” He hikes up his posture, damn near tugging on an imaginary waistcoat. “It’s Mr. Richards now?”
I want to giggle. Badly. But I school my features and utter, “Reece. I really need you to be serious.”
He dips over and kisses the center of my palm. “Done. I promise, beautiful mama.”
I take a second to order my pulse rate into submission. “We’ve…created an extraordinary child.”
“Errrmmm, hello?” He nods toward the ultrasound pictures piled near the goodie platter. At once, he turns back into a dreamy-eyed Daddy-to-be. “I mean, shit. Really, would you look at him?”
“I’ve all but memorized the image.”
My murmur is husky and utterly heartfelt, especially now. I pull his fingers to my mouth and layer fervent kisses across his powerful knuckles. The man even has the hands of a superhero—hands that have wrought such destruction on so many but have brought my senses and my body such pleasure. Hands that can wield a thousand shards of light but then a million molecules of sensual fire. Hands wielding the flames that have brought me here, falling in love all over again with the father of my child. The father he never thought he’d be…
From the depths of that fervent and perfect love, I finally finish, “Just like I’ve all but memorized this one.”
And with that, I finally get to bring out the ultrasound that Neeta took less than twelve hours ago.
The picture so different from its predecessor.
Different…to the point of disconcerting.
“Holy blossoming baby, Batman.” My husband’s stunned sough brings an odd sense of validation to my rioting senses. His shock is a thickening presence on the air as he lines up the second shot of Bean with the first. “And they say infants change from month to month during their first year? How about their first trimester?”
I greedily take one more second to enjoy him like this, quietly contemplating the snaps of his little boy, before angling closer to him again. I rest my hands on the ball of his knee, memorizing this moment too. The abject joy across his face. The committed focus in his body. But at the same time, the tender adoration underlying both. My fierce god king has finally been subdued—by a couple of fuzzy pictures of the magical creature inside my belly.
Magical, indeed.
“Reece.”
“Hmmm?”
“Those pictures were only taken a day apart.”
At once, his head snaps up. He searches me with a gaze that, if turned int
o silver Silly String, would look like a glowing spider web. “Excuse the hell out of me?”
“You’re excused,” I riposte, feeling strangely lighter already. “But that’s not going to change these facts.”
He whips his stare back and forth. “Which are exactly what?”
I buss the back of his hand again, sensing he needs the extra enforcement. I hate the fact that his reaction keeps bringing me such deep relief, but it’s damn nice to be the only one not freaking out from these crazy circumstances. No. It’s better than nice. I’m actually the strong one here! I’ve lost track of that knowledge in the midst of all my training, with its tests designed to expose my weaknesses in order to toughen them. It’s kind of nice to remember, if only for these few minutes, that I do have the emotional stamina to carry shit now too—in addition to the physical treasure I’m hefting.
“Well, number one, our child wasn’t conceived in normal circumstances,” I profess.
Reece chuffs. “No shit.”
I crack half a smirk. “Withhold your applause until the end, sparky.” I pause, giving him plenty of opportunity to prepare himself for the whopper. “So now that we’re clear about all that…” I hold his gaze with my eyes but surround my belly with my hands. “This kid’s conception is definitely affecting how he wants to dictate this pregnancy. In short, at the speed of light.”
Fortunately—oh, thank God—I’ve done my duty well. Reece doesn’t look as nonplussed at this as he did when I presented Bean’s close-ups. “All right. So what’s our time frame?”
I lean back, certain I feel yet another new flutter inside my expanding belly. “As much as we can figure”—and that’s actually a lot, considering Lydia’s gone out and purchased every pregnancy development book that’s ever been published—“Bolt Junior is cutting his development time in half.” I guide Reece’s hand across the stretched expanse, as well. If anyone else is going to detect the flutters, it’s definitely going to be him. It also feels damn nice to have his touch this intimate and warm, helping me to say for the very first time, “You might just be a daddy by Christmas, Mr. Richards.”
I’ve run this moment through my mind at least a hundred times—and on every occasion, I’ve come up with a different way that Reece could react. It’s a daunting thing for a normal guy to be told he’ll be a father, and most are damn glad for nine months of prep time. But to be told that one’s superhero son is coming in a few months at best? I’m prepared for the man to pass out again. At the very least, to shovel in the whole plate of Oreos at once.
What I do get is beyond the best scenes in my imagination.
A smile that reminds me of bold, blazing sun. A hand that he spreads across my middle, lighting up the surface like star fire. But most of all, a star full of such penetrating silver light, I harbor absolutely no doubts about the reality of its intention.
Its gratitude.
Its wonder.
Its elation.
But the man seems to think I need further convincing—evidenced by the determined dip of his head and the fervent clutch of his mouth. He takes my lips with fiery need and adamant desire, until we’re both ripping backward just to get half a decent breath of air. I’ve never felt more revered before. Or cherished. Or deeply, fervently loved.
With all those conclusions still battling for control of my sanity, it’s a wonder I get any words out, but I do. Just a few. No more sarcasm in them. Now, only gratitude of my own. “I…I guess you’re happy?”
“Velvet.” Though his tone chastises, his stare all but adores. “Happy was me when all you did was wake up.”
Twelve hours ago, the man was passed out in the dirt next to our front driveway. Now I wonder if he’ll be the one calling out for help as he tempts me to reciprocate the favor by swooning into unconsciousness. But I’m damn certain I’ll wake up with a smile threatening to take my ears out. I’m lightheaded from joy, replete with happiness, and consumed with thankfulness for this man. My hero. My incredible, sexy-as-hell baby daddy…
And just like that, I’m ready to jump the man again.
And with exactly that intent, I wrap his arm all the way around my body, giving me the space to crawl into his lap…
As a clap of thunder seems to shake the whole house.
“Fuck me,” Reece mutters.
“Holy crap,” I cry out at the same time…
Before realizing it’s not thunder at all.
It’s Sawyer freaking Foley. Who, for being a guy who secretly just wants to hang at the ocean and down beers all day, loves to make entrances like he’s an entire troop of marauding marines.
“Foley.” Reece’s bark echoes my perplexity. I follow him out of the office onto the landing overlooking the living room. “You here to collect the dead, asshole? Because I swear to God, you’ve just woken them all up.”
“Sure, whatever.” Sawyer plants hands on his hips while flinging back a glare that more than holds up to Reece’s scrutiny. “They can come too, if they want.”
At once, a wave of tension cascades off my husband. Every inch of his body goes stiff with the same alert dread. “Foley?” he demands. “What the fuck is it?”
Our friend punches a hand through his shoulder-length waves. Completes one wide circle at a noticeable pace. And then makes my blood run cold as he orders, “You probably just need to see this, Reece. Right away.”
Chapter Three
Reece
When a guy like Sawyer Foley says there’s something I need to see in the command center at once, chances are it’s not the latest Rams cheerleaders’ rehearsal reel or the hot new piglets-and-puppies Vines compilation.
Fuck.
My gut is an acid lagoon as I follow the guy across the driveway and then into the room filled with more technology than Hank Pym’s quantum control room. But surprise, surprise, all the guys look even worse. It’s clear that while I was on my ass in bed, they were chugging Red Bull and chomping on beef sticks to make this happen.
Only I’m still clueless about what this really is.
“What the hell am I looking at?” I demand, peering at the three larger monitors bracketed to the shelf above a bank of a dozen smaller screens. What I see on many of the junior monitors is heartening—or as heartening as it can be, considering the images represent the top-secret global kidnapping ring financed by a worldwide crime cartel along with the raided bank accounts of their wealthier victims.
Like I’d been.
I try not to linger too long on those pages, with their endless euro signs and numbers, or on the color-coded maps next to them, comprised of colored hexagons that are keyed by words that make so much sense. Too much sense.
Alpha Holding Rooms
Omega Holding Rooms
Labs: Electro-Circulatory
Labs: Electro-Cranial
There are spreadsheets containing names, dates, statistics, and notes that make my head spin and my stomach lurch. So many lives, dwindled to nothing but data in rows and columns. But I use the skill those bastards taught me best and compartmentalize until all I see are the giant images on the large monitors. I can tell they’re aerial satellite shots, just like the ones someone would get by clicking Earth View in their favorite maps app, but for the life of me, I don’t comprehend exactly what part of the globe I’m studying. There’s something familiar about the rugged coastline shots, but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing at this point.
I only know that for being a shit ton of intel, none of this is exactly what we’re looking for. Not by a long shot.
“Were these all on the encrypted stuff I carried back over?” I charge. “Because none of this terrain is remotely similar to where I was kidnapped.” My memory might be off a little from that night, but not by much. Granted, I’d had a lot to drink—but I’d also snorted a lot of coke, balancing out the booze, and had remained fairly alert during that fated drive. The area in which we’d ended up was remote but not the damn Pyrenees. There had been pavement. Street lights. W
arehouses. Maybe someplace up or down the coast. A shipping district, perhaps.
But I’ve shared all of that and more with the guys already. They know this.
So why am I looking at aerial images of sweeping foothills and sprawling canyons?
Unless this is the area in Spain where the fuckers are thinking of permanently moving the Source?
But even if we know that for certain, we can’t just wait for the move to happen. That would require lying low again, basically sitting on our hands waiting for the Consortium to make their move. It’s a Pause button we don’t have time for, considering Faline’s given us the message, loud and clear, that she won’t stop at any boundary, including our own families, to harvest souls for her mob of mindless idolaters. At this point, we’re flying blind about even that and what she hopes to achieve. Why the brainwashed army? And why now? What’s her plan? My gut has no damn answer except haunting flashes from my confrontation with Dad in Barcelona.
In the end, death is going to be better for all of us…than what those moon pickles have planned…
They’re whack jobs on a mission…to wipe out humanity…
I was a mixed-up asshole…who really bought into their illusion of a master race…
Chilling pieces of a bomb—but still no cohesive detonator for the damn thing.
What is going to be that bitch’s trigger? And just as importantly: where and when will it be?
Without those answers, even the information we’ve got here might be too little, too late. Information both Dad and I have risked so much to get…
But this is no time for wallowing. I shore up my demeanor as Foley moves next to me, though I don’t miss the bug of his eyes at the bulge of Emmalina’s middle. Quickly, I replace my moroseness with a full-on gloat. Yeah, man. I did that shit. Just call me Super Sperm from now on.