Page 116 of The Beekeeper

“We’re moving.”

And there was no mask good enough to hide her reaction. The drop of her jaw. The swift inhale of breath. She was the picture of a woman who’d just been stabbed in the chest, and I was the one responsible.

“M-Moving?” she stammered, struggling to regain her composure but doing a damned admirable job of it.

My fist curled tighter. “The lawsuit is over. I need something permanent for Pais and me. I put an offer in on a house this morning.” It was for the best. I was an asshole, but it was for the best.

“I…I see.” Hearing the catch in her voice was just as damaging as seeing the hurt on her face. “Congratulations,” she insisted, a brief smile flitting over her face. “That will be really good for you and Paisley.”

“Yeah,” was all I could manage. It had to be better. For her and for me. “I’m hoping we’ll be out of your hair in the next week or two, but I wanted to tell you before I told her.”

At that, she said nothing, and I realized I’d just twisted the knife I’d buried in her chest. My head snapped back, my eyes catching the pain-soaked pupils of hers. Out of her hair. Jesus, I really was a fucking asshole.

“Harper—” I was cut off by a blood-curdling scream—high-pitched, hurt, and belonging to my daughter.

Harper and I looked toward the flowers, toward Paisley’s wail of pain. And then Harper was running, sprinting toward her while I just stood there, frozen. My heart had dropped straight to the ground, weighing my feet in place like a thousand-ton anchor. Paisley. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move as my gaze chased Harper through the field until she reached my daughter.

She crouched and the next thing I knew, Harper had Pais in her arms and was rushing toward me.

“Blaze!” Her shout jarred me—uprooted my feet and carried me forward. “Get my first-aid kit from the shed.”

First-aid⁠—

“Now!”

Fear curdled my blood, but all I could do was follow her voice, obey her instruction. I spun and sprinted down the path through the woods. It felt like my feet barely touched the ground as I raced for her shed, the door slamming into the wall as I threw it open and then grabbed the bright-red kit.

It seemed like I no sooner blinked and I was breaking back through the trees to see Harper kneeling on the grass with Pais in her lap.

“Holy shit,” I swore and dropped to my knees, the kit crashing next to me, the top popping open.

“Take her,” Harper ordered, her voice miraculously calm as she put Paisley in my arms, my daughter’s face red and swollen, her breaths shallow and wheezing. She was allergic to bee stings.

“Daddy,” Pais whispered, but her voice could hardly make it past her lips, her throat was so swollen. Her little chest struggling with the effort to stay alive.

Fuck.

“I’ve got you. Daddy’s here,” I croaked, struggling to speak. To think. To do anything in the fugue of fear that pulled me under like quicksand.

“It’s going to be okay, Paisley,” Harper said, reaching into the kit for the EpiPen. “Daddy got the medicine I was telling you about. One more pinch and then it’s going to be okay. Then you’ll feel better. Promise.”

She popped the cap off and then yanked up my daughter’s shorts. Pressing the injector to her thigh, she pushed the button, and I felt Pais stiffen slightly as the needle stuck her. After that, there was nothing but relief.

I held my breath until Paisley’s breathing returned to normal, the swelling quickly but still too slowly coming down. As soon as she took her first full deep breath, it expelled on a cry as she reached for me.

“Daddy!”

Taking her shaking body from Harper, I held her to my chest as she cried.

“You’re okay, pumpkin.” I held her close, feeling myself choke up. Relief and fear played a vicious tug-of-war in my chest. I’d almost lost her. Again. I’d almost lost her, if it hadn’t been for Harper.

And for some reason, instead of gratitude, I only felt resentment. Not toward her. Not really. Toward myself. In a moment of crisis, Harper had saved my daughter, not me. What kind of father was I that I simply froze when Pais needed me most?

“I’ve got you, pumpkin. I’ve got you,” I said, holding her tighter to my chest, unsure if I’d ever be able to let her go.

For long minutes, none of us moved. Like we needed the panic and adrenaline to drain from around us first. Eventually, it was Paisley who stirred first. Her crying had subsided, but her cheeks were still blotched red as she tipped back.

“What happened to me?” she whispered.