Page 95 of Daddy's Ring
Declan crosses to me first, kissing me thoroughly enough that Stellan makes a disgusted sound. Then he scoops up Maeve, who's been making grabby hands at him since he walked in. "There's my girl. You been good for Uncle Stellan?"
Uncle Stellan. He says it like it's already established, like there's no question about Stellan's role in Maeve's life.
"She was a terror." Stellan deadpans. "Absolute nightmare."
Maeve giggles, clearly recognizing the teasing tone if not the actual words.
We eat dinner together—the three of us plus Maeve, who's more interested in stealing food than eating her own. It feels domestic and comfortable and terrifyingly real. Like this could be our future. Like this could be what every day looks like.
After Stellan leaves and Maeve's in bed, Declan finds me in the kitchen washing dishes. He slides his arms around me from behind, chin resting on my shoulder. "Good day?"
"Yeah." I lean back into him. "Stellan keeps coming by. I don't think I've ever spent so much time with him."
"He wants to change that." His hands are warm on my stomach, solid and reassuring. "He likes you. Both of you."
"He's not exactly demonstrative about it."
"That's just Stellan. But he wouldn't be here if he didn't care." Declan kisses my neck, soft and sweet. "He's family now. We both are."
There's that word again.Family. Like it's already decided, already real, already permanent.
"Declan—"
"I love you." He says it against my skin, his breath warm. "In case I haven't mentioned it in the past hour."
He has. He tells me constantly now, like he's making up for years of not being able to say it. Every time he leaves. Every time he comes back. Random moments throughout the day when I'm just existing and he looks at me like I'm everything.
"I know." The words stick in my throat because I can feel my own building behind them, pressing against my teeth, wanting to be said.
But I can't. Not yet. Because saying it means admitting how completely he's stolen my heart again, how thoroughly I've let him back in, how devastating it would be to lose this now.
Friday night,we're tangled together in my bed—our bed, really, since Declan's been sleeping here every night this week—and I'm tracing the lines of his tattoos in the dim light. He's got new ones since I left, dark geometric patterns that wind around his ribs and down his side.
"When did you get these?" My fingers follow the ink, feeling the slight texture difference where it marks his skin.
"About six years ago." His hand is in my hair, fingers moving gently. "Needed something to focus on that wasn't missing you."
Six years ago. Two years after I left. Long enough that he should have been moving on, should have been getting over me.
"Did it work?"
"No." He says it simply. "Nothing worked. I just existed until you came back."
The honesty in his voice makes my chest tight. "That's not healthy."
"Probably not." He shifts so we're face to face, his dark green eyes serious. "But it was true. You're it for me, Zola. Always have been."
I want to argue, want to tell him that's too much pressure, that he can't put his whole existence on me. But looking at him now, seeing the certainty in his expression, I realize he's not asking for anything. He's just stating facts. This is who he is. This is what he feels.
"I'm scared." The admission comes out whisper-quiet.
"Of what?" His thumb brushes my cheek, tender.
"This. Us. How much I—" I stop, swallow hard. "How much this matters."
"It matters to me too." He pulls me closer, tucking my head under his chin. "More than anything."
"What if something happens? What if?—"
