Page 116 of Claimed By the Bikers
Three more contractions, three more pushes, and suddenly there’s a slippery, screaming bundle being placed on my chest.
“Baby A,” Doc Morrison says, clamping and cutting the cord. “Seven pounds, two ounces, and very unhappy about being evicted.”
Atlas cuts the cord with hands that shake slightly, his face showing wonder and terror in equal measure.
“One down, one to go,” Doc Morrison says, preparing for the second delivery.
Baby B arrives twelve minutes later, slightly smaller but with an even more impressive set of lungs. Garrett receives him first, cradling the tiny form to his chest.
“Seven pounds even,” Doc Morrison announces, cutting the second cord. “Both babies are healthy, breathing well, excellent color. Two healthy, beautiful boys.”
Silas starts singing immediately—a French lullaby his grandmother used to sing, his voice soft and sweet as he welcomes his sons into the world.
“Fais dodo, Colas mon petit frère,” he croons, tears streaming down his face. “Fais dodo, t’auras du lolo…”
Doc Morrison works efficiently, delivering the placentas and checking for complications. “Everything looks good. No tears, minimal bleeding, both babies scored nine on their Apgar tests.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you did beautifully, and your sons are absolutely perfect.”
Connor and Caleb—though I still don’t know which is which—have stopped crying and are looking around.
“They’re so small,” Atlas marvels, touching a tiny fist.
“Seven pounds isn’t small for twins,” Doc Morrison assures him. “They’re actually quite good-sized.”
“Can I hold them both?” I ask.
“Of course. They’ve been listening to your voice for months. You’re the most familiar thing in their world right now.”
He places both babies on my chest, skin to skin, and immediately they calm down. Two tiny boys who already know they’re safe, they’re loved, they’re home.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the three men surrounding us.
“For what?” Garrett asks.
“For giving me this. For choosing me. For making me part of your family.”
“Ma belle, you gave us this,” Silas corrects. “You gave us sons. You gave us a future.”
“We gave each other everything,” Atlas says quietly. “That’s what families do.”
Doc Morrison finishes cleaning up and makes notes on his clipboard. “I’ll need names for the birth certificates.”
“Connor James and Caleb Michael,” I say, using the middle names we chose to honor Atlas’s grandfather and Silas’s father.
“And the father?”
The room goes quiet except for the soft sounds of newborn breathing and my own heartbeat.
“All three of us,” Atlas says finally.
“I can only list one name on the legal documents.”
“Then list mine,” Garrett says immediately. “I’m the one who lost a child before. I’m the one who needs this most.”
“No,” Silas argues. “I’m the youngest. I have the most years left to be their father.”
