Page 243 of American Hellhound
“No, you’re not.”
She leaned down, her hair soft and fragrant against his face, and kissed his mouth.
See, Duane’s problem was that he’d never had a Maggie, which was why he was dead, and Ghost wasn’t.
~*~
He dozed, and when he woke next, he was clear-headed enough to raise the bed up so he and Mags were eye-to-eye.
“If it hurts, then lie back down,” she fussed, straightening his pillows so they supported his shoulders and neck. “Don’t be a hero.”
He winced; it did hurt, but he couldn’t just lie around like some kind of invalid. “Too late for that.”
“Don’t be anass,” she amended, smiling.
“Too late for that, too.”
“Trust me, I know.”
When he was settled, she went to the Pack ‘N Play and scooped up Ash. Ghost had at least a hundred questions, but he took a moment to watch her get settled, open her shirt, set the baby to nursing.
“You two should go home and get some real sleep,” he said, throat tight in a way that had nothing to do with all the meds he was on. “No sense sitting here with me.”
Maggie sent him ayeah rightlook.
“You need your sleep.”
“I’m not the one who got stabbed in the gut.” She shuddered, grip tightening on Ash. In a clear attempt to change the subject: “Alright, I know you’re dying to ask me everything. Fire away.”
His first question was, “You’re alright?”
She smiled. “I’m fine.”
“The kids? The babies?”
“Also fine.”
He heaved a deep sigh, some of the tension in his chest easing. “You’re sure?”
“Sure. The whole entire family is fine, newbies and hangers-on included.” She snorted. “Roman’s in the room next door.”
“What?”
“Stab wound. Y’all are two peas in a pod.”
“Christ, don’t say that.”
She chuckled. “You can compare war wounds later.”
She then launched into a detailed, but matter-of-fact account of what had happened at the hospital, including the fake Lean Dogs cuts, Fielding’s loyalty, and Harry’s stitches.
Ghost muttered “fuck,” and “shit,” and “baby” throughout, hands curling into fists in the blankets. He thought he might puke, sick with useless worry, guilt, and anger. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“Yes you can. And Dad’s fine, by the way. Came through surgery like a dream.”
“Yeah, shit. That’s good.” A thought struck. “What about your mom?”
“Freaked out. Terrified. Mostly of me, I think.” She glanced down at the baby. “Nothing like watching your daughter pump bullets into people.”
