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"Find what you love and let it kill you."

- Charles Bukowski

Six months later.

Benedict Pierce. That was his name. My son.

I loved him because he was innocent, because that's what kids did to you—they made you feel something pure, something unbreakable. I loved him because Frankie had chosen him. And I loved him even more because he had chosen me—because when he called me Dad, it fucking meant something.

And for everything the world had put our son through, his mother and I needed blood.

It had been months of hunting that worthless son of a bitch down—the one Benedict's junkie excuse of a biological mother had sold him to for a few whiffs of her fucking poison. He knew what was coming the second he heard I was looking for him. He knew exactly what I would do when I got my hands on him.

But you can only run so long before the devil catches up.

And tonight, the devil had arrived.

My phone rang. The call I'd been fucking waiting for.

"Logan?" I answered, already knowing.

"Got him, boss," Logan said, cold and sharp. "Taking him to Goat's old place."

"Good job, Logan." I said. "I'm coming."

I could've had Logan bring the bastard here. Frankie would've wanted it that way—wanted her final fucking word with the man who haunted our son's nightmares. But she was eight and a half months pregnant. The doctor said she could go into labor any day now. I wouldn't risk her stress over that piece of shit.

She needed rest. Peace.

And sex. But she wasn't in the mood. So, yeah.

I walked back into the living room, my eyes locking onto my beautiful, grumpy, exhausted wife. Lately, the contractions had been worse. The discomfort constant. And fuck, I hated seeing her like this—knowing there was nothing I could do but rub her shoulders, draw her warm baths, massage her aching feet, get her every goddamn craving.

And it still wasn't fucking enough.

Frankie was sprawled on the new, ridiculously soft couch I'd gotten her, surrounding herself with a fort of pillows. Most nights, she didn't even bother coming up to bed—just slept here. And I took the couch next to her. She needed me at night.

Always.

I crouched beside her, brushing back her hair. God, she was fucking stunning. Even exhausted. Even miserable.

"Baby," I murmured.

She was half-asleep, her voice muffled against the pillow. "I wanna sleep."

"Sleep, baby," I whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm going out for a bit. Benedict will be with me. Call me if you need anything."