Page 91 of Ruthless Possession
I sit beside her, pulling her into my lap. She settles against me, her head on my chest, her breathing steady and calm.
"We're going to go home soon," I tell her, stroking her hair. "Back to our house and your room with all your stuffed animals."
"Can Princess Sparklehoof come with us?" she asks, her voice small but hopeful.
"Princess Sparklehoof can come wherever we go," I promise. "She's family."
Charlie looks up at me, her blue eyes serious. "Are you my family now?"
The question catches in my heart. I look up at Trenton, then at Matthew, seeing my own emotions reflected in their faces.
"Yes," I say, my voice thick with tears. "We are. All of us."
Trenton moves to sit on her other side, and Matthew takes the chair beside the couch. We form a circle around her, this little girl who has brought us together in ways we never expected.
"Family means you stay," Charlie says, looking between us. "Even when it's hard."
"Even when it's hard," I repeat, pressing my lips to the top of her head. "Especially when it's hard."
She nods, satisfied, and closes her eyes again. Her breathing slows, and within minutes she's asleep, her small body heavy and warm against mine.
Trenton's hand finds mine across her back. Matthew's knee presses against my leg. The three of us sit in the quiet of the cabin, the morning light growing stronger through the windows, and we don't let go.
chapter sixteen
One month later
Morgan
The morning starts the way it always does now with the creak of Charlie's bedroom door followed by her small feet padding down the hallway before the sun has fully risen. I'm already in the kitchen, coffee in hand, watching the backyard through the window where Trenton installed the new security cameras three weeks ago. The system is state-of-the-art motion sensors, perimeter alerts, the works. I haven't told him, but I still check the monitor every morning before I pour my coffee. Old habits.
"Morgaaaaan." Charlie appears in the doorway, Princess Sparklehoof dangling from one hand, her hair a wild tangle of dark brown curls. She's wearing the purple dress she insists on wearing every Tuesday because Tuesday is purple day, according to some system she's developed that only she understands. "I can't find my backpack."
"Check under your bed. You kicked it there last night."
Over the last month she has grown more comfortable with us and decided to call us by our first names, dropping the titles.
She disappears and returns thirty seconds later with the pink backpack slung over one shoulder, looking pleased with herself. I hand her the bowl of cereal I poured before she even came downstairs. She climbs onto her stool at the counter and digs in.
"Miss Donna said we're making handprint turkeys today," she says around a mouthful of Cheerios. "For Thanksgiving."
"That sounds fun." I lean against the counter and sip my coffee. "You excited?"
She nods, already focused on her cereal. The conversation pauses, comfortable and easy, the kind of pause that would have been filled with fear a month ago but now just feels like a normal Tuesday.
The routine has settled over us, warm and healing. Mornings start early. Charlie has preschool three days a week at the small community center downtown, the one with the fenced playground and the teacher who calls me every afternoon with a report on Charlie's day. Tuesdays and Thursdays are therapy days. Dr. Elaine's office smells like lavender and has a basket of fidget toys in the waiting room, and Charlie has started calling it "the talking room," which Dr. Elaine says is a good sign.
Trenton appears in the doorway, already dressed in his club cut over a black t-shirt, his hair damp from the shower he just took. He presses a kiss to the top of my head on his way to the coffeepot.
"Morning, kiddo," he says to Charlie.
"Morning, Trent. We're making turkeys today."
"Handprint turkeys?"
"Yep." She holds up her free hand, fingers splayed. "With the fingers."
He nods like this is the most important intelligence briefing of the day and pours his coffee. I watch the easy way he moves around our kitchen now, opening the right cabinet for the sugar, knowing which drawer holds the spoons, refilling Charlie's juice without being asked. A month ago, this kitchen was a war room. Now it's just a kitchen.
