Page 10 of Saving Their Forever

Fuck. I don’t know how to reassure her. Or if I even can. “It’s not the last time, sweetheart. For anything. We’re having a baby. Not moving to the Arctic Circle. Once we figure out who the guy is and why he was following you, I’ll put an end to him—to it.”

Wren sniffles once, then offers me a weak smile. “No, you meant him. You forget I know you, Ry.”

She’s not wrong.

Outside, Graham takes Evianna’s arm. The kid’s a damn good actor, staring down at her like she’s his entire world. I’d feel better if Wyatt were with us too, but he took Hope to her physical therapy session an hour ago.

Ripper, Cara, and Charlie take the lead. The German Shepherd is on high alert, feeding off Rip’s anxiety. The shelter he volunteers at didn’t know where the dog came from when he showed up a couple of years ago with a mangled ear and no chip, but I’d bet a hell of a lot of money he was trained as a police or military dog.

Evianna laughs at something Graham says, though her shoulders are approximately half a centimeter from her ears. I can’t focus on Wren. Not completely. Not and scan for threats. But I feel her worry.

She doesn’t spook easily. Never has. So whoever the asshole is? He’s dead.

“You’re thinking so hard, I’m surprised there isn’t a thought bubble floating over your head.” She digs her fingers into my side. “Spit it out.”

“Not yet.” This conversation can’t happen out on the street. Or without Dax. “When we’re home. With the door locked.”

“You’re not making me feel any better,” she mutters. “And the door is always locked.”

Well, fuck. I’ve always been shit at reassuring her. Reassuring anyone. And we’re about to have a baby.

Our daughter will need me to tell her she’s safe. Protected. Loved.

What if I can’t do it? What if I try and she doesn’t believe me?

Wren glances up at me, and damn. She can see it. Everything. My worry. The panic that hasn’t disappeared since the day she told me she was pregnant.

“Breathe, Ry. If I can, you can.”

For her, I can try. But we’re still two blocks from the waterfront. I haven’t seen anyone following us, and my phone peeks out of my back pocket, recording everything behind us. Rip has a camera clipped to his belt buckle to capture the street ahead of us. We didn’t have time to fit Graham with a device, but he’s perceptive well beyond his years. He might not have my memory—yet—but he’s getting there.

My phone buzzes, and I check the screen.

West: I’m in the Pike Place garage. Slot B-23. All clear down here.

“Sampson’s ready for us,” I say. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, we’re in the elevator up to the eighth floor of the building I bought when Ripper decided to move to Seattle. The security is beyond top of the line. The garage needs a keycard, fingerprint scan, and an eighteen-digit access code. The elevator uses a second access code, a voice print, and—to reach the sixth, seventh, and eighth floors—a retinal scan.

The six of us—plus Charlie—ride all the way to the top. As soon as the elevator doors open, Wren rushes ahead of me to our condo. “I really have to pee,” she says, a bright red flush to her cheeks. “I didn’t want to risk going at the bar.”

I don’t say a word as she beelines for the bathroom.

Dax, who’s been in my living room for the past half an hour, stands. “Evianna?” Behind his tinted glasses, his eyes search her out, though I doubt he can tell her and Cara apart. They’re almost the same height.

Yet he crosses to her without hesitation, and Evianna wraps her arms around his waist.

“You okay, darlin’?”

“Fine. The guy…he was just watching. Creepy, but he didn’t approach us.”

“Watching all of you? Or Wren?” Dax asks. From the edge to his voice, he’s barely holding it together. So am I, if I’m honest. But I can’t lose my shit. Not now.

“I don’t know,” Evianna says. “We stopped to ‘window shop’ a couple of times, and he seemed like he was focused on Wren, but we stuck close together, so it was hard to tell.”

Wren trudges back into the room, Pixel winding around her ankles and yipping the whole way. As soon as she sinks into the recliner, the pup scrambles up next to her and settles across her lap. She twines her fingers through the dog’s curls. “We got a photo of him. Kind of.”

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