Page 105 of Daddy's Ring
"Declan—" His name is a plea, a prayer, everything I couldn't say for eight years condensed into two syllables.
"I've got you." He kisses me, swallowing my cries as he drives deeper. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
The orgasm hits me like a wave, pleasure rolling through me in pulses that make my entire body shake. Declan keeps moving, working me through it, and I feel him stiffen—his rhythm faltering as he follows me over the edge.
He comes with his face buried in my neck, breathing my name like an incantation, and I hold him through it, fingers stroking through his hair.
We stay like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. His hands are gentle now, stroking my back, my sides, like he's memorizing the feel of me.
"I love you." His voice is quiet but certain. "I need you to know that. I need you to believe it."
I pull back enough to look at him, this man who waited eight years, who kept a house like a museum, who showed up every day for weeks with breakfast and patience and love.
"I love you too." The words feel monumental, like I'm reshaping my entire world around them. "I'm sorry it took me so long to say it."
He kisses me soft and sweet, and I taste promise in it—a future we're finally brave enough to reach for.
DECLAN
The late afternoon sun slants through the bookstore windows, turning dust motes into gold. I push through the front door and spot Zola behind the counter, braids swept up in a messy knot, pen stuck behind her ear while she tallies something in the ledger. She looks up at the sound of the bell and smiles—that real smile I thought I'd never see again, the one that makes her whole face light up.
"Dada!" The shriek comes from somewhere near the children's section, followed by the rapid thump-thump-thump of unsteady feet.
Maeve rounds the corner at full speed, arms outstretched, dark curls bouncing with each wobbling step. She's gotten steadier over the past few weeks since she started walking, but she still moves like she's perpetually drunk—all momentum and optimism with very little balance.
I drop into a crouch just as she reaches me, catching her against my chest. She smells like baby shampoo and the strawberries Zola probably let her have as a snack. Her sticky hands immediately grab my face, patting my cheeks with thekind of enthusiasm that suggests she hasn't seen me in days instead of this morning.
"There's my girl." I press a kiss to her forehead, standing up with her on my hip. "You been good for your mama?"
"Mama!" Maeve points at Zola for emphasis, like I might have forgotten who that is.
"I see her." I walk over to the counter, Maeve still in my arms. "She causing trouble?"
"Only a little." Zola's watching us with that soft expression she gets sometimes, the one that makes my chest feel too tight. "Knocked over a display of board books earlier. Very proud of herself."
"That's my girl." I bounce Maeve gently. "Taking after her Uncle Stellan already."
Zola snorts. "God help us all if that's true."
Maeve babbles something that might be words or might just be enthusiastic sounds, grabbing at my collar. I let her, adjusting my grip to keep her secure. She's gotten heavier these past few months—more solid, more real, more like an actual person instead of the tiny fragile thing I was terrified to hold wrong.
I watch her try to chew on my shirt collar and something warm expands in my chest. This kid isn't mine by blood, but she's mine in every way that matters. Has been since the moment Zola let me back into her life and I realized what I'd been missing.
"I want to take you somewhere." I look at Zola over Maeve's head. "Both of you. Right now."
She glances at the clock. "I was just about to close up anyway. Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise." I shift Maeve to my other hip. "Trust me?"
Her expression softens. "Yeah. I trust you."
Those three words hit me harder than they should. Trust hasn't been easy for either of us—not after everything we've beenthrough, all the ways we've hurt each other. But she's trying. We both are. And slowly, carefully, we're building something that might actually last.
"Give me five minutes to close out the register." Zola's already moving, her hands efficient as she handles the cash drawer. "Can you get Maeve's bag from the back?"
"On it."
I carry Maeve through the small hallway behind the desk, finding her diaper bag exactly where Zola always leaves it—hanging on a hook beside the storage room door. I grab it one-handed, Maeve still clutched against my chest, and she makes a happy sound that might be "dada."
