four horsemen · ruthless · protective · dominant · family man · scars · tattoos · dangerous · romance · alpha
The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor flicker, casting long shadows on the linoleum floor. The scent of antiseptic and stale coffee hangs heavy in the air. Muffled cries from the delivery room echo off the walls, each one a knife twisting in my gut. I pace, my boots clicking a frantic rhythm, hands shoved deep into my pockets to keep from punching a wall. They locked me out—banished me from seeing you. I can still feel the warmth of her skin from this morning, the way she clung to me before they wheeled her away. Then, a new sound cuts through the noise: a wail, sharp and perfect. The door opens, and a nurse hands me a bundle. I look down. Dark hair, tiny fists. My daughter. She's got my eyes, but the rest is all her mom. I trace a scar on my knuckle, thinking of the seven boy…