Finally, Sean orders Seamus to leave the house without me, and I seize my opportunity. Liam pales at my request, but he delivers, standing outside the bathroom upstairs. He’s supposed to be keeping watch, but he’s mainly just calling through the door.
“What does it say?” he calls, hammering on the door. “It is ready yet?” More hammering. “Fuck, Tiggy, what does it say?” A pause. “Jesus fuck, Tiggy, how long does this take?”
Ignoring the cacophony through the door, I stare at the six tests laid out on the bathroom floor at my feet. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.
The door cracks open. Liam, getting sick of my silence, picked the lock. His eyes are glued to the floor, just in case I still have my panties down. They land on the tests, and he reads them, one after the other, his eyes bugging out of his head as they fly up to meet mine.
“Happy tears?” he asks hopefully.
Tears? I swipe at my cheeks. Fuck. I hadn’t even realized I was crying.
“I-I don’t know,” I stutter. “I’m a bit fucking shocked. I’m on birth control. It’s supposed to be 98% effective.”
“I, uh, I guess Seamus has super sperm,” Liam supplies awkwardly, running his hand through this thick, dark hair.
I blink at him in shock, a harsh bark of laughter erupting from my throat.
“We haven’t….” I gesture, struggling to find the words. “Not since before….”
Liam is staring at me like I have two heads. After a moment, he cops to my meaning and blinks, looking angry.
“You were pregnant at the warehouse?” he bites out. “Fuck. You shouldn’t have been going around stabbing and shooting people and killing them. Pregnant women aren’t supposed to have that kind of stress!” he scolds me.
SEAMUS
The Romanians are done in Boston. We cleaned house, calling on our alliances with the Italians and the Russians. Pa mainly took care of it while I was taking care of Tig, but he wanted me here at the end. Fucking ordered me from my wife’s side. Arrogant fucker.
It’s done now, and I just want to have Tig back in my arms. She still hasn’t got her stitches out. I shouldn’t have left her side.
We all go back to my house. Well, I go home, and the lads follow me there. As we step into the entrance hallway, Tig freezes, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, having been seen creeping out of the parlor for some fucking reason.
“Don’t tell Liam I moved. You didn’t see anything!” she hisses at us, disappearing back into the parlor, snapping the door shut behind her.
Liam comes out of the kitchen, carefully carrying a mug of tea.
“I heard that door, Tiggy. You better have your ass on that sofa with your feet up and a blanket over your knees when I get in there!” he yells in the direction of the parlor, sounding like a pissed-off granny.
Why the fuck is he treating my wife like an invalid. I know she was shot, but coddling her ismyfucking job. My eyebrows raise, my eyes boring into the side of his face until he turns to me.
I open my mouth to ask him what the fuck he’s playing at when he beats me to it.
“You tell that woman no more running around getting kidnapped, stabbing people, and shooting them. In fact, she should stay out of warehouses altogether!” he snaps.
My eyebrows are attempting to disappear under my hairline now. She’s never going near another warehouse, but that is neither here nor there. Liam is going off like he’s a mooning, pissy little shite. He has no reason to feel so protective of Tig. I don’t like the implication, my eyes narrowing on him as the rest of the lads stare at him like he’s grown an extra head.
Ignoring us, he stalks over to the door of the parlor, wrenching it open.
“Fucking pregnant woman shooting a man in the face, it’s not fucking right.”
The door closes behind him, and there is complete silence in the hallway as we all process his words.
My brain finally makes the connection. Jesusfuck. My feet are moving, and my heart is in my mouth as I barge into the parlor where Liam is setting the tea on the end table next to Tig.
She’s seated on the sofa, her feet propped up on a footstool and a throw rug wrapped around her legs. On the sofa next to her are six pregnancy tests. Her eyes meet mine, dropping to glance at the tests. Nervously, she turns back to me.
“Surprise,” she mutters weakly.
I gape at her like a fucking fish. An expression no doubt mirrored on the four faces behind me.