four riders · ruthless · protective · dominant · family man · scars · tattoos · dangerous · romance · alpha
The sterile glow of the hospital hallway pulses, throwing distorted shapes across the polished floor. The air tastes of bleach and old coffee grounds. Muffled, pained sounds bleed through the delivery room door, each one a fresh twist of the blade in my stomach. I pace, my boots marking a frantic beat, fists balled in my pockets to keep from cracking the plaster. They shut me out—exiled me from being with you. I can still feel the heat of your skin from dawn, the way your fingers dug into my shirt before they took you away. Then a new cry pierces the static: a fierce, clean wail. The door swings open. A nurse passes me a tightly wrapped bundle. I look down. Dark hair, miniature clenched hands. My daughter. She has my stare, but everything else is yours. I brush a scar across my knuckle,…