Page 50 of Calypso's Shield
FARRIS
It’s been three months since Calypso was shot. Three months since I found out about our baby. Three months of watching the strongest woman I’ve ever met fight like hell for me, for our kid, and herself. And now? We’re still figuring shit out.
We’ve been bouncing between clubhouses, caught in the pull of two different worlds, trying to find the balance. I think we need a house somewhere halfway between her club and mine. Somewhere safe. Somewhere that’s ours.
That’s why I’m here in Red’s IT room, going over locations and logistics while Calypso rests. She wasn’t feeling well earlier, so I let her sleep while I handled shit.
“That should do it,” Red mutters, typing away. “I’ll run the search and send you anything solid.”
I clap him on the back. “Appreciate it, brother. Let me know.”
I head back to my room, and the second I open the door, I know something’s wrong before Calypso even says a word. She’s tough as hell, but even she has her limits, and right now, she’s hitting them hard.
She’s curled up on my bed at the clubhouse, her skin pale, sweat dampening her temples. Her breathing is uneven, her fingers gripping the blanket like it’s the only thing holding her together. The stubborn set of her jaw tells me she’s trying to tough it out. I hate seeing her like this.
Crouching in front of her, I reach out, but she flinches like even my touch is too much. “Lyp,” I say, my voice low, steady, trying like hell to keep the panic out of it. “Talk to me.”
She swallows hard, her lips parting, but no words come out. Just a shaky exhale that makes my gut twist.
“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face. “Is it the pain? Your joints?” She gives me a weak nod, her eyes glassy with exhaustion. “And the fever?” Another nod.
I press the back of my hand to her forehead, and Jesus Christ, she’s burning up. “Baby, why the fuck didn’t you tell me sooner?” My voice comes out harsher than I mean, frustration and fear twisting together.
She lets out a bitter chuckle, but it’s breathy and weak. “Because I knew you’d act like this.”
“Like what?” I growl.
“Like you’re about to lose your goddamn mind.”
I don’t answer because she’s right. Instead, I do the only thing I can, I act. I grab the water bottle from the table and press it into her shaking hands. “Drink.”
She tries, but her hands are trembling so badly that she can’t hold it. That’s when I really start to fucking panic. I take the bottle from her, twisting the cap off and tilting it to her lips myself. She takes slow sips, wincing, like even that’s too much effort.
“You need to eat something,” I say, my voice tight. “You’ve barely kept anything down.”
She exhales sharply. “It’s not just that, Farris.” Her voice is hoarse, raw, and fuck, she sounds so damn tired. I know what she’s not saying. It’s the baby.
My stomach turns. I move beside her, my hand pressing gently over her belly. “Tell me what you need, Cal.”
Her fingers cover mine, her touch barely there. “It’s just… a bad… flare. It happens.”
I grit my teeth. “I don’t give a shit if it ‘happens.’ You’re pregnant, Calypso. You’re carrying my kid. And I’m not letting you fight through this alone.”
She blinks up at me, and for the first time since this started, her tough exterior cracks. Her lips tremble, and her body tenses like she’s holding herself together by sheer will.
I wrap my arms around her carefully, pulling her against my chest, letting her feel me. Solid. Unwavering. “I got you, baby,” I murmur against her hair. “I’ve always got you.”
She exhales a shaky breath, sinking into me. “I hate this.”
I press a kiss to her temple. “I know.”
She shifts slightly, her hands resting over mine where they’re cradling her belly. “I don’t want to be weak.”
I tighten my grip, my voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You’re not weak, Calypso. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever fucking met.”
She doesn’t argue because she knows I’m right. She’s not facing this fight alone, not anymore.
The further along she gets, the worse the flare-ups become. According to the doctors, she has twelve weeks left. Twelve weeks of watching her struggle with pain. Twelve weeks of watching her face light up when the baby kicks. Twelve weeks of wondering if she’ll carry to term. High risks. Complications. A chance she won’t make it.
