He had made himself her personal bodyguard and they both skirted around the reasons for that. Jax in jail with half the MC incarcerated with him, Gemma literally gobsmacked by how utterly she had simply not been part of it, Opie wavering between new love and old grief, heat from every imaginable legal and illegal corner, he himself still wiping at the sweet blood of vengeance that just seemed impossible to wash from his hands. And at the center of it all, she, Tara, nearly nine months gone.

No one had asked directly, but it was certainly assumed that the brothers on the outside would circle the wagons. And they had. But the unborn future king, it was as full of danger and possibility as a thing could be.

He supposed that it was also assumed that the Queen would take the Princess under her wing, cast a royal watch over the heirs, but Chibs knew better. She seemed eminently alone to him. He was a subtle observer and the subtleties were glaringly obvious if one took the time to look at them symbolically. Gemma was certainly fierce, and a protectress, but blood runs thicker than water and Gemma's interpretation of that bond was all about the blood. Gemma was about the boys, Tara was the womb through which her blood flowed.

Chibs took it as a covenant made with someone he'd shed blood with and he was willing to share that bond with Tara, if she would allow it.

One crazy Friday night in the Clubhouse with booze flowing and weed burning, he had looked around and suddenly felt her absence as though it were a sucking hole right in the centre of his mind. Literally could not remember the last time he'd seen her. He walked out into the night air, thought about it for the time it took him to smoke a filter-less down to ash, then he straddled his bike and headed into suburbia.

The kitchen light was on, the porch was dark, and he knocked with a trepidation he hadn't considered. The light snapped on overhead and a moment later she was opening the door in a rush, all color drained from her face. He held up a gloved hand. "No bad news, Tara."

She visibly deflated and sighed. Smiling weakly at him. "How'd you know?"

"I saw your face. I should have telephoned first, I guess."

"No, it's okay, Filip. What's up?"

"Just thinking about you."

She was surprised. "Me? Thinking about me?"

"You. And the bairns. Born and unborn."

"The bairns?" she teased him, one hand on the huge belly. "Do you want to come in then?"

She was wearing some kind of black stretchy combination of pants and t-shirt and he had to look away from how womanly her pregnancy was making her. The reedy girl was gone, a powerful woman emerging from the gravid form. He thought she was beautiful.

"For a bit, sure. Check up on you."

She laughed. "Check the closet for my illicit lover? My breath for booze? Or just how clean the bathrooms are?"

"All of the above."

She poured him an ice cold beer and a large glass of orange juice for herself and they settled down in the living room, the floor scattered with toys and pre-school art projects. He sat on the sofa and she curled herself prettily into the recliner. Rocking herself with one foot on the floor.

They small-talked the club, the garage, her ailing Cutlass. Without feeling the time pass, they talked for hours and she told him about her alcoholic father and how he left her the suburban ranch style house. How she had found her way back to Charming and he could pick up the story from there, clearly remembering her surfacing in the sea of the MC. A raven Venus on her half shell. He realized that he had been much more aware of her than she had ever been of him. But he was used to this. He knew what he looked like and he knew the impression he made on folks, especially women. But he wanted to smooth that out and find a way past that with her, for Jax. He wanted to be her friend.

And if worship from afar outlined that friendship on his part, he was fine with that, too. He needed someone to serve. His was the role of Knight.

She nodded off during a quiet break in the conversation and he gently pried the empty juice glass out of her hand, helped her to her feet and walked her down the hallway to her bed. They peeked in on a sleeping Abel, and then he left her at her bedroom door, telling her he'd take a key from the hallway table and lock the front door behind him.

At home, he twisted the key to her front door onto his keychain, the weight of it in his palm. Then he fell into his own unmade bed as though falling from a cliff into a bottomless abyss. He slept and woke with remnants of dreams of her hanging on him like wispy clouds.

The late nights became their private retreat. And then they became early nights, and then evenings and he was showing up for dinner, tiring Abel out, cleaning up the dishes, waiting on his Queen.

One night, he noticed a new pile of softback books on the counter. Birthing books, mothering books, breastfeeding books. He looked through each, thumbing slowly through the very graphic photographs, slowing down at the images of nursing babes that somehow in some way felt like a fist around his heart. He had missed so much with Kerrianne. Fiona had returned to her family, her mother and sisters, for the birth and the newborn days. He hadn't really thought it was strange, and honestly, hadn't cared in the way he should have. The way Jax was now not present, the MC having come first, imprisonment, business, vengeance and payback. Jax was getting shived in jail, lifting his scepter amongst the serfs, and Tara was growing a new life, counting down the days on her fingers. The world kept spinning on its axis and sometimes Chibs simply could not breathe for fear of weeping.

"What's all this then, doll?"

"Homework," she said with a smile, rifling through the books as he had done. "You know, even though I'm a doctor, I've got to admit that this is freaking me out more than just a little." She held up a two page spread of a crowning baby. "Yeah."

He nodded, squinting at the image. It was unimaginable. He had wrenched himself free of his mam, Kerrianne had been born, Tara had tumbled from her mother's body, Gemma had birthed Jackson. But it was still utterly unimaginable.

She had said something.

"I'm sorry?" he apologized.

She cleared her throat and when he looked at her, she was blushing. "I've decided to take the Bradley class instead of the Lamaze. I don't want any drugs."

"Aye? Cavewomen style?"

"No, I'm serious. I don't want to be drugged. I want to have this experience, you know?"

"I get that." And strangely, he did. The pure physicality of it, the triumph of mind over body, making something entirely your own. "And a class helps you to get there? To have the experience?" he quoted back at her as though she had spouted an undefinable wisdom.

"They say it can make a huge difference. Do you want to go with me?"

His world fell away beneath his feet and he had to remind himself to close his mouth.

"Wait, that wasn't the right way to ask you, let me start over."

He sat down at the kitchen table. She paced the short length of the lino. "Glad to hear there's a right and wrong way."

She smiled at him, the brilliance of her white teeth, the warmth in her eyes. "I know, it's crazy. But Filip, I need someone to be at the birth with me. Not Gemma," she shuddered. "I have no girl friends or family. And Lyla offered but," she hesitated with something heavy on her tongue, "but that's just not a good idea. For her. Jax isn't here, right? I want you to be with me. "

His heart was racing. "Have you run this past Jax? Or Gemma even?"

"Do I need to?" She was angry.

"Aye. Yeah, you do."

She took a trembling breath. "What I need is for you to be my support person." She was ticking points off on her fingers. "You're strong, you've been through this before, you're a medic, you make me calm, you're great with Abel, Jax trusts you."

He was standing now. "Tell all of those things to Jax first, Tara. I can't just say yes to this."

She had her fingertips on her mouth, he wanted to feed his own fingers between her lips. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. She stocked his brand now.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying no."

"You're not?" she whispered.

He heard the years of disappointments that had shaped her thusly. The tentative steps that seemed to have the land crumbling out from underneath her. The trust issues. Abandoning father, distracted mate. He put the beer down on the counter and walked the deliberate step to her. He reached for her shoulders and pulled her into his arms. She came slowly, sniffing.

"I'm huge. I'm sorry."

"You're pregnant and why are you sorry?"

"I'm just so emotional. Jax should be here. Everything makes me cry lately."

He reached up and cupped her head in his palm, pulling her face against his chest. She began to cry softly. Her arms slipping around behind his back, holding on. Jax should have been there. Right there but Chibs knew enough about Lady Luck and her sisters the Fates to take what was offered when it came his way.

"Here," he said, walking them backwards to the chair, sitting and pulling her down onto his lap. Her arms went up around his neck, and she buried her face into his shoulder. He could feel her warm breath on his neck, feel her relax against him. His arms were awkward around her, one forearm on her belly and he could feel her child kick within her.

He held her until it became awkward and she stood and went to the kitchen sink and washed her hands. He knew the feeling, his own palms were clammy with sweat.

The next day the two of them went out to the prison. Together.

They sat opposite one another at the plastic table, waiting for Jax. She had driven them both in the Cutlass. It was definitely misfiring but he held his tongue. The car was simply sex on wheels and he knew without having to be told, that it somehow in some American teenage dream way held all of Jax and Tara's secrets. Breaking each other's virginity would be just one of those transgressions. He ground his teeth and looked out the window, the barren wasteland that was Stockton flashing past, dry and wasted. And he wondered for the first time in a very long time, how he had come to find himself so far from soaking wet alleys, green fields, and the true war. She said no problem when he asked if he could smoke and he rolled down the window and blew broken ring after ring out into a seemingly endless America.

Jax came through the door and the clinched and then Chibs moved to the far end of the table, leaning away from the couple as they spoke in quiet serious voices. He watched another pregnant couple hiss angry words at one another two tables over and a memory flashed through his mind, doing time in Dublin, Fiona showing up to tell him she was knocked up good and tight, and that was all he could recollect. The thug life hadn't changed very much, he surmised, glancing around at the people who were tied to one another by fate and chance and circumstance and they were holding on with bloody fingernails torn ragged by the effort, they had nothing else and letting go was letting go of everything.

Jax was calling his name. He turned back, stood up and took a chair opposite them.

The prince was wearing his trademark grin, he looked relieved. "Thanks, man."

"Anything, brother." Chibs shrugged, shaking his head.

Tara leaned over and kissed Jax quickly, a guard cleared his throat in the corner at her, and she stood. "I'll be outside, Filip." They both watched her leave.

"I'm sorry, man," Jax's voice was sincere, his gaze hard and fast on Chibs. "You shouldn't be having to do this. I get it. She says it's got to be you. Gemma needs to stay with Abel. Guess it's the medic thing, huh? Least you've seen it all before." He laughed, shaking his head.

Another shrug.

"I owe you. Big time." He was standing now, his hand extended. Chibs took it and Jax leaned across the table for a quick hug.

Chibs whispered some covert MC business into Jax's ear, the smell of prison laundry soap and unwashed hair filling his nostrils. He curled his upper lip, and the information exchange was done.

Out in the hall he looked for a water fountain, filled his mouth with water, swished it through his teeth, and spit it into the drain.

It was the last night of class. He felt they had learned everything they were going to learn, they could skip the cookies and milk and good luck wishes, but she wanted to go. He knew she would not be returning for the post-birth party. No one had asked, it would have been ridiculous, but it was assumed that he was there as father and mate. And every Monday evening for five weeks he played along.

Now they were on the floor and she was slotted firmly between his knees, leaning forward, the amazing curve of her pelvis locked inside of his thighs, the heels of his hands on her lower back pressing, rubbing upwards. Back labor preparation, but all he could think about was Stockholm Syndrome and was it a real thing? He wanted to pick her up in his arms, carry her out to the Cutlass and drive into the black night until they reached the edges of the world and fell into the universe. Mid-massage he was suddenly on his feet and moving out of the room. He needed air and a smoke or a pack of smokes and a drink or a bottle of whiskey and when that was drained he needed someone to crack him over the head with the empty. Jaysus.

When he returned they were seated in the dismal folding chairs, looking through pamphlets about circumcision. He sat next to her and she reached out and gently squeezed his knee and it was okay.

Cutting a newborn baby boy's foreskin off and pitching it in the bin, however, wasn't okay and he didn't give a rat's ass who thought he was crazy he was going to hold fast to that. He had no idea what Tara thought, he'd seen Jax in the altogether and wondered how he'd come through the American ritual unscathed.

A mousy woman at the far end of the row of chairs, raised her hand and said, "Well, won't he feel different if he doesn't look like his father?"

Chibs was relieved that the poor sodding husband had the good graces to blush.

Another woman who was apparently single and had attended class with different assistants weekly but was alone tonight said firmly, "The uncircumcised penis is unhygienic and," she made a face, "unattractive."

He barked out laughing. The woman refused to look at him but the rest of the class was staring, the men uncomfortable.

The instructor diverted, "Filip, you're Scottish, correct? They don't circumcise there, right?"

"Aye. Unless you're Jewish and that's not done in hospital." He looked down the row and the woman was shaking her head. "Listen up, you think an uncut cock is a boggin goat, that's your business. But you're making that decision for your son? God help him then."

She gasped and beside him Tara laughed low and clucked at him. He stood and left for the second time.

Outside he leaned against the black car and smoked another cig down to ash. He thought about bodies, who they belonged to, who they didn't. He thought about his face, Jimmy O's knife blade snicking through his flesh, the unzipping of his cheeks as he came apart under someone else's hand. He remembered the feel of the thick skin parting more than he remembered any pain, that came later. He thought of what they had learned about episiotomies, the idea of Tara's body, the most secret parts of her, being clipped open and later stitched close, ragged edges, a war wound.

She woke him with a hand on his shoulder. He had been sleeping in the spare room for a few days. He was awake instantly but in confusion. And he sat up and nearly clocked her with his head, she was leaning over him, whispering his name. He had been dreaming that he was deep in a cave, moist and damp and warm, there was an oracle balanced on a raised pedestal, knees drawn up to her chest, and she was telling him the secret story of his unseen future. Her voice was Tara's voice.

"Filip, it's time, it's time," she said and for a long moment he sat still trying to sort the dream voice and Tara's voice in the dark room.

"Aye," he finally said, running a hand over his hair, down through his goatee.

She flicked the light on and disappeared into the hallway. He heard her on the phone with Gemma. He stood and stretched and dressed quickly.

She was pacing the hallway, the kitchen, the living room, her hands in the small of her back.

"It's been hours, hasn't it?" he asked. And she nodded.

"My water broke at," she looked at the clock on the stove, "one. An hour ago."

"You're timing them?"

She held up a hand and he wasn't sure if it meant, stop, or five minutes. She braced herself on the table and closed her eyes, breathing heavily.

"It's a good day to be born," he said, smiling at her and she smiled in return, her face grateful and fearful and excited. His heart thumped hard inside of his chest.

They walked the carpeted hallways, silent but for her small groans. She would knot her hands behind his neck and his arms were beneath her arms and he would hold her as she bent her knees and endured another contraction. His neck and shoulders were screaming sore but he didn't care. When she was using the loo he asked for and was given two ibuprofens. He wished he had a flask of whiskey to wash them down but it was in his cut and that was hanging on the chair in her spare bedroom.

She sat, she stood, she walked and just past dawn she said she wanted to push. They called the midwife and he helped her up on the bed. And she bent forward over her raised knees and a grunt became a scream and his hands went to both sides of her face, his forehead fast against hers. She was panicking. The midwife tried to tell her it was good, it was transition, but she was beyond hearing. She had moved into a primitive place. He breathed for her, and finally she focused her eyes on his and she whispered, please, get behind me, hold me tight, Fil, please please please and the moaning began to rise in pitch again and he quickly toed off his boots and climbed up onto the narrow breakaway bed behind her.

She leaned back against him, her head lolling into his neck, and he couldn't help himself. He brought both hands up to her throat, fingers spread, palms warm against her skin, and he held her fast against him. Then the midwife nodded at him.

"You're a natural, Tara. You're almost there. You're doing a great job. Your baby is ready to be born. I can see his head. Here, give me your hand. Feel his head. Birth this baby, Tara. You've worked hard for this. Here. Here."

She bent forward in his arms, and he bent with her, holding her elbows, letting her leverage herself against him. She needed his strength, she needed his spine to be steel and his hands to be iron. She screamed again and he saw the midwife reach for the shears and he knew she would be cutting. It was a quick snip, Tara screamed through it, and then the midwife had the baby.

"Here, momma, here you go, take your baby," she was sing-songing.

He looked down into her face, her eyes were closed, her mouth open, still breathing heavy. His world had split into pieces around him. All sharp and dangerous, edged with longing. He wanted to be cut, too, he wanted to let what was in his heart out into the world, wanted to bleed gouts of love until he was bled dry. He kissed her hair, her temple, the corner of her eye. He tasted the salt of her sweat and tears.

"Tara," he said in her ear, "he's here, reach down, hold him."

And she listened to him, slitting her eyes open and reaching for the newborn. The midwife ran a quick finger into the babe's mouth, cleared his nose, and then was helping Tara to lift him to her chest. He came all wriggly and white with vernix and bloody with his mother's wound. He smelled like woman and power and life. And Filip realized he was crying.

It had been a narrow place only big enough to hold the two of them, the memories, the smells, the flesh on flesh. The screaming, the tears, the endless holding and the hands and fingers. The joyous, relieved laughter, the baby cries, the suckling, the smiles. The stitching, and the delivery of the afterbirth, the pulsating cord that had tied the babe to his mother that he had cut. It was harder to sever than he had imagined. The umbilical cord that had fed life.

The day-to-day grind. Day-in day-out. And he was firmly caught in the teeth of the gears. But he also knew he had oiled the machine and fed himself into it, piece by piece. He didn't want to be destroyed, just remade. His lot was what it was, the cards dealt, the die cast, the bones thrown, the tea leaves always drying in the same pattern at the bottom of the cup. As long as he could be in her vicinity it was livable.

The sidelong glances she cast at him from the corners of her lovely feline eyes, the lingering touches, the hand on his arm, the knuckles down the long length of his spine, the laughing lean into him. These things fed him but also starved him, as though he were devouring broken glass. He was trapped inside his own skin. He hated the feeling that he was a supporting actor in someone else's play. And yet, he donned his costume, strode across the planks, read his lines, and disappeared into the wings.

The month of Thomas's one year birthday was an agony. The weather, the body memory, the long summer evenings that were filled with the MC and not her and him in the backyard of her house, drinking cold beer and oj and watching Abel in the kiddie pool while she rubbed cocoa butter into the taut skin of her belly.

There was a barbecue in that backyard for Thomas' birthday and he went because he was a masochist and the self-flagellation he was doing at home wasn't enough to bleed by any longer. He brought a book for the baby and flowers for the mother. No one had thought to gift Tara and she put the roses in a vase and they were alone in the kitchen for long moments.

"Seems like a week ago," he said simply. He could close his eyes and take himself back to that early morning, the timing, the pacing, the breathing. And then out into the driveway, into the car, backing out and seeing his Dyna against the garage door as if it belonged there. And the next day, bringing her and her child home, the bike still solid and gleaming and after he settled her, Gemma took over, and he climbed on the motorcycle, a backpack full of clothes, and drove to the clubhouse where he got so drunk he had to be put to bed by the prospects.

"Sometimes it does," she answered. "It was a wonderful day. Not sure I ever really told you how much it meant to me that you were there." She looked through the sliding back door out into the yard filled with club members, old ladies, and Jax holding his son. "I couldn't have done it without you."

He laughed. "I think you could have. Nature would have forced your hand."

"It wouldn't have been the birth I wanted, though. You made that happen, Filip." She walked around the counter slowly. "Thank you." She opened her arms and pulled him into her embrace.

She was thin and solid, small and tucked up neatly against him. He hesitated and then he didn't. He pulled her fast and fierce to his body. She came willingly, flame to his fuel, his hands were flat against her back, fingers ghosting the well of her spine, he could feel her ribs, the strength of her bones. She breathed out hot against the skin of his throat. He held her tightly, rocking her in his arms, and when she felt him grow hard, her hips ground against his and he had to put a hand down on the counter behind him to steady himself and press the length of his body harder into hers. Suddenly, she had his hand in hers and was pulling him down the hallway, into the spare room, inside she shut the door and leaned against it. His heart was thundering, lightning sparking out the ends of his fingers. He was on stage, alone with her, there was no script, they were standing in the spotlight.

"Filip," she whispered and he remembered her as the oracle from his dream.

"Tara," he said haltingly, his teeth breaking with her name.

Then he was on her, pushing her fast and hard against the door, his hands on her face, his mouth on her mouth. She was kissing him, frantic and crazed. There was only the two of them. The spotlight was hot and growing smaller, they could not fit within its light.

He kissed her and kissed her, memorizing her teeth with his tongue, swallowing the taste of her, aching for more. Then he broke free, rolling his forehead against hers, breathing the same narrow breath.

"I can't," he said and his lungs seemed to implode with the effort.

"You can't," she whispered.

He heard - "I know."

She kissed his mouth and he tasted her tears.

He brought a hand up to the back of her head and pulled her face into his neck. They were both trembling. He held her until they stopped. Then he let his hands drop and took a small step back, away from her, out of her heat.

"I love you." The words a confession. He wanted her to absolve him of this sin.

"I know."

He heard - "You can't."

She slipped out the door.

He walked to the window, looking out through the sheer material, the world a softer place than he had ever known it to be. He pulled the rosary he wore around his neck out of the collar of his shirt and began a Hail Mary.

Fàilte dhut a Mhoire, tha thu lan de na gràsan…

Contrite, contrite, contrite.