Page 20 of Daddy's Ring
I want to argue. Want to tell him he's being stupid, that he should take what's his, that I'm not worth this. But the words stick in my throat because part of me—the selfish, desperate part—wants exactly what he's offering. Wants him to choose me. Wants to believe I matter more than anything else.
"What if you regret it?" The question comes out small. "What if ten years from now you look back and wish you'd made a different choice?"
"I won't." No hesitation. "The only thing I'd regret is losing you."
He pulls me closer, careful of my incision, until I'm tucked against his chest with his chin resting on top of my head. His heart beats steady under my ear, solid and certain in ways I've never been.
"It's all going to be okay, love." His voice rumbles through me. "I promise. The school situation, the bills, all of it—we'll figure it out. Together. You're not doing this alone."
I nod against his chest because I don't trust my voice. Don't trust myself not to start crying again or saying something I can't take back. He's offering me everything and it terrifies me because everything can be lost. I learned that when Mom died. Learned that depending on someone, needing them, makes their absence unbearable.
But I don't say any of that. Don't voice the fear that's coiling in my stomach, the certainty that I'm going to cost him more than he realizes. Instead, I let him hold me in the dark bedroom with the soft sheets and the careful touches. Let him whisper promises about futures I can't quite picture anymore.
His fingers trace slow patterns on my back, soothing and possessive at once. "We're going to be fine," he murmurs. "I've got you. I'll always have you."
The words should comfort me. Maybe they do, somewhere underneath the exhaustion and medication and grief. But mostly they make me aware of how much I'm taking from him—his future, his certainty, his carefully laid plans. All of it disrupted because I got hit by a car and now I'm broken in ways that matter.
I close my eyes and try to match my breathing to his, try to find some measure of peace in the steady rhythm. His arms stay locked around me like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go. Like I'm the precious thing worth protecting.
And maybe that should be enough. Maybe I should just accept what he's offering and stop questioning it. But I can'tshake the feeling that I'm drowning us both—that eventually the weight of all these sacrifices will pull us under.
"I love you," I whisper against his chest. Because that much is true, even if everything else is complicated.
"I love you too." His lips press to my hair. "More than anything."
We lie there in the darkness, wrapped around each other, both of us carrying fears we're not voicing. Outside, the city hums with its usual nighttime symphony—distant sirens, car horns, the occasional shout. Normal sounds from a normal world where people aren't having conversations about lost futures and strategic marriages.
But we're not normal. We never have been. And now we're both pretending that everything's going to work out when neither of us actually believes it.
6
DECLAN
The warehouse on Fishtown smells like old concrete and fresh blood. I've been here for two hours now, and I still can't make my hands stop shaking.
The guy's tied to a chair in the center of the room, head lolling forward, face a mess of split skin and purple bruising. Troy Donnelly. Twenty-six. Insurance adjuster. Ran a red light on Girard Avenue four days ago and destroyed my entire fucking world.
"Jesus, Dec." Stellan leans against the far wall, arms crossed, watching me with that clinical detachment he does so well. "You're going to kill him before we get anything useful."
"Don't care." I slam my fist into Donnelly's jaw again, feeling something crack. Blood sprays across my knuckles. "He doesn't have anything useful to give."
"Then what's the point?"
The point is I need this. Need the solid contact of bone against bone, need the visceral release of violence that's been building in my chest since I watched Zola cry last night. Since my uncle stood across from me in that sterile hospital hallway andtold me she wasn't suitable. Since Dr. Reeves explained what they'd had to remove to save her life.
I hit him again. And again. My shoulders burn with the repetition but I can't stop.
"Declan." Stellan's voice sharpens. "He's barely conscious."
"Good." I drive my knee into Donnelly's ribs, hear the air wheeze out of him. "He should suffer."
Stellan pushes off the wall, moving closer but staying just out of reach. Smart. He knows better than to get between me and something I'm trying to destroy. "This isn't helping anything."
"Helping wasn't the fucking goal." I grab Donnelly's hair, yanking his head back. His eyes are swollen nearly shut, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. He's making these awful gurgling sounds that should probably bother me more than they do. "The goal was making him hurt."
"Mission accomplished." Stellan watches me with those cold gray eyes. "Now what?"
Now what. Like there's some logical next step to this clusterfuck. Like I can just stop being angry that some careless piece of shit was texting while driving and crashed into the woman I love. Like I can forget that Zola's lying in my bed recovering from surgery that stole her future. Like I can ignore that my uncle wants me to throw her away for political convenience.
