Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
His words gave me something new to worry about, too—that he was going to pursue custody of them. So I had to be ready for whatever fight he brought my way and fight back harder.
It took a while, but after the nurse finally brought some painkillers, I fell into a restless sleep.
Chapter Four
Taras
My family’s name had gotten me on the list of contacts for my sons—which was against the hospital’s policy given our circumstances—but when the hospital director was on your staff, he made shit happen. So, when I’d called at 3 am and 6 am to check on them, I’d gotten a full update.
It also meant I could stop by to see them when I arrived at eight o’clock, before going to check on Nell in her room.
What I didn’t expect was to walk in and see Rider helping a hunched over Nell back to her bed.
“The nurse said it was too early for a shower, and that you shoulda waited until tonight,” Rider lectured as she moved to sit down on the edge of the bed, slowly lowering herself in small, visibly painful increments. “But not Penelope Hamilton, no you had to have a fucking spa.”
“Washing my hair isn’t a spa, Rider,” she croaked, groaning when her ass reached the mattress. “And I smelled of smoke, probably had all sorts of crap in my hair, and I needed to get clean. I’ve got two babies who could do without being exposed to that sort of shit, and I’m going to see them as soon as the doctor says I can.”
It was a reasonable explanation, but I was concerned about her, too. Was it sanitary for her to have a shower with a big wound? Could she get an infection from the stuff she’d washed out of her hair if it had run down her body with the water?
“You could have put your hair in one of those cap things I’ve seen some of the nurses wear, and then rubbed the sanitizer stuff all over you,” he muttered as he helped lift her legs onto the bed so she could lay out. “Watch your damn IV.”
In the hours I’d been away, even though she was still pale, she’d started to get back some of the color in her face. She’d also changed into a pair of yoga pants and a tank top that showed what she still had left of the bump from the pregnancy.
“That wouldn’t have done as good of a job as the shower did. And I’m hoping to try and feed them while I’m there, so I need to be clean all over.”
“Don’t gotta be clean all over to hold a bottle, babe,” he fired back.
His back was still to me and her focus was on trying to get comfortable, so neither had noticed me.
“You do if the bottles are your tits, Rider.”
There was a pause, and then, “Now those I could hold for you. My hands are clean.”
They’d known each other all her life, he was best friends with Hunter, and their moms had been best friends. Hell, he and Hunter had even been born on the same day, so I knew that there was a level of knowledge that bled into intimacy between them. But he’d also been flirty with her during our relationship, and it had pissed me off then.
It pissed me off now, too, enough to make me grind my teeth at the mental image of him holding her breasts while she fed one of the babies.
Opening the door a bit farther, but keeping the hand with the gifts I’d brought behind it, I cleared my throat, getting both of their attentions. Nell’s eyes widened, but Rider’s just narrowed as he saw me.
“Thought you were one of the Club,” he clipped, and I realized he wasn’t a dumbass who couldn’t sense when someone was behind him, like I’d thought he was.
No, he was a partial dumbass who still should’ve checked, especially given the danger he knew damn well about.
Ignoring him, I focused on my woman. “How are you feeling this morning, Nell?”
Hearing the nickname only a few people called her, Rider stiffened. He could rot. He’d known her for twenty-two years, and had never had the balls to call her it. That was his issue to come to terms with.
“Fine.”
Tilting my head to the side, I shifted my other arm around the wooden door and showed her the gift bags and flowers that I’d brought with me, watching her expression change when she saw what I had in my hand.
I’d memorized everything about her while we were together, so I knew she loved roses—but hated red ones—and that her favorite color of them was pink.
On my way here, I’d stopped at the florist run by one of our men’s wives —a Fedorov business—and had handpicked three dozen of them. She always had a good supply of the pink ones, because I’d demanded it.