Page 96 of Daddy's Ring
"Then we handle it." His voice is steady, certain. "Together. But I'm not leaving, love. Not by choice. Not ever again."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it physically hurts. But there's this part of me—the part that watched my mother die, that lost Nia, that spent years convinced I'd destroyed the best thing in my life—that keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"I know you're scared." Declan's still talking, his hand moving in soothing strokes down my back. "I know you think I'm going to wake up one day and realize you're not worth it. But that's not going to happen."
"You can't know that."
"I can." He tips my chin up, making me look at him. "Because I already spent eight years without you and it was the worst years of my life. I'm not doing that again. Neither is Stellan."
"Stellan—"
"Adores Maeve. Tolerates you." His lips quirk, teasing. "His words, not mine."
Despite everything, I laugh. "He's such an asshole."
"He is." Declan kisses my forehead. "But he's family. And so are you."
There it is again. That word. That promise. That terrifying, wonderful certainty that we're building something real here.
By the timeSaturday rolls around, I'm completely rattled. Declan's here constantly, Stellan's integrated himself into our routine, and Maeve acts like having them both around is the most natural thing in the world. She lights up when either of them walks in, demands their attention, falls asleep easily in their arms.
She's building attachments. Real ones. The kind that will hurt if they break.
I'm building attachments too, even though I'm trying not to. Even though I keep telling myself to be careful, to protect myself, to not let them all the way in.
But it's too late. They're already there. Declan with his constant affection and patient persistence, Stellan with his dry humor and unexpected gentleness with Maeve. They've woven themselves into our lives so thoroughly that I can't imagine what it would look like without them anymore.
And that's what terrifies me.
Because I've never had this. Never had family that showed up consistently, that wanted to be around, that loved withoutconditions or reservations. My mother tried, but she was sick and overwhelmed and barely keeping us afloat. Nia was chosen family, but even then I kept parts of myself separate, protected.
I never let anyone all the way in. Never trusted that they wouldn't leave, wouldn't get tired of me, wouldn't realize I wasn't worth the effort. Everyone has always left in one or another.
Declan's sprawled on my couch watching Maeve play with her blocks, and I'm supposedly doing inventory but really just watching them. The way he responds to every babble like it's a conversation, the way she keeps checking to make sure he's still there, the way they've developed their own little language of sounds and gestures.
He's not going anywhere. I can see it in every gesture, every word, every moment he spends here. This isn't temporary for him. This isn't him humoring me until something better comes along.
This is real.
And I don't know how to let myself have it.
26
DECLAN
The warehouse reeks of rust and old blood, and the man at my feet isn't moving anymore. His breathing's shallow, rattling, but he's still alive. That's more mercy than he deserves after skimming from three different shipments.
I shake out my hand, knuckles split and throbbing, and turn to where Ronaldo is trembling against the wall. He's younger, barely twenty, and he watched me put his partner down without blinking.
"You understand what happens if I find out you're involved?" My voice is flat, conversational.
"I—I didn't know." Ronaldo's voice cracks. "I swear, I didn't know he was?—"
"But now you do." I take a step closer and he flinches. Good. Fear keeps people honest. "So you're going to tell me exactly who else knew about it, and you're going to do it quickly because I'm tired and I want to go home."
Stellan's behind me, already calling for cleanup, his voice low and efficient as he coordinates the disposal. He's better at this part than I am—the logistics, the covering tracks. I'm better at the message-sending.
Ronaldo spills everything in under five minutes. Names, dates, amounts. By the time he's finished, he's crying, and I'm mentally cataloging which of our distributors need to be reminded what loyalty means.
