Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Listen, Seamus,” I whisper. “We’re going to survive this, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are,” he says immediately, like the idea of failure isn’t even a possibility. That fire I’ve come to trust flares in his voice.
“Then let’s get it over with. We know what we need to do.”
He pulls back just enough to see me. His gaze digs in, searching, wanting more than just agreement; he’s looking for belief. He lifts his hand and brushes a knuckle under my chin, so soft it aches.
“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me what you think we should do.”
There’s something raw in him now, unguarded. As if this moment, this invitation to be his equal, costs more than blood. Like letting me carry even a fraction of his burden is the most intimate thing he’s ever done.
And I feel it. God, I feel it.
I swallow, my eyes locked to his. “We need to have a baby.”
His eyes widen like I just set a star in his hands. Shock cracks through him but not fear. No, it’s something gentler. Hope, maybe. Wonder.
“We do, don’t we?” he says, his voice barely above a breath.
I nod. “Even your father… even my brother. They won’t be able to argue with that. If we join our families—”
“Right,” he cuts in, the spark catching hold. “I know it. A baby,” he repeats, like he’s still trying the word on. “I never thought I’d want one. Never been one for babies… But with you, darlin’…”
He trails off, shaking his head like he can’t believe where his own heart has led him.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “A baby. I know it won’t fix everything. I know what we’re about to face. It’s going to be dangerous. Brutal.”
I run my thumb along the line of his jaw, feeling the coarse heat of his stubble, the warmth of him. He catches my hand, presses a kiss to my thumb, and then sets both hands on my hips, grounding himself in me.
“We do,” he agrees. “My family’s wrath. Branson. And whatever your brother decides.”
“My family,” I say. “I’m stalling. As long as they think I’m safe… they won’t strike. Not yet.”
He nods slowly. “I know you believe that.”
“But you don’t.”
“I can’t.”
And I get that. He’s not wired for faith, not when all he’s ever known is betrayal and survival. Hope isn’t a luxury he trusts.
Thunder crashes above us, so loud and sudden, it jerks me back into my body. I flinch.
He chuckles deeply and pulls me tighter. “Just thunder, baby,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I know,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, lightning splits the sky again, so close it feels like it might tear the roof off. “It just seems… close.”
“It is close,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping the windowpane. Outside, the sky has darkened, thick storm clouds blotting out the light. Then comes the rain, sharp, sudden, relentless. It lashes against the glass like it's trying to claw its way in.
“Good,” he says, more to himself than to me, as if he’s pleased. “We might lose power. But it’ll buy us time.”
Then he turns, his eyes catching the soft lamplight, and there's that glint again. That crooked, wicked gleam that lives in his smile like a secret only I know. The devil incarnate, grinning just for me. “My father’s men don’t like the rain.”
“Good,” I echo, mirroring his grin with one of my own. It’s slower, warmer, a touch more dangerous. “Gives us a little time together.”
“Aye,” he rumbles, leaning in close, brushing his lips right against my cheek in a gesture that’s more possessive than tender. “A little time to make that baby.”
A flush blooms low and heavy in my belly, heat spreading like honey on hot skin, thick and unhurried. I match his grin without hesitation.
“Aye,” I whisper back, letting the word roll from my tongue just like I know he loves it, soft and Irish and laced with something more than just affection.
He chuckles, a gravelly sound that stirs something primal in my chest.
“But first,” he says, stepping back just enough to flash me a look. “Let’s eat. I’m famished. Let me cook for you this time,” he offers, a little too eager, like he’s trying to prove something. There’s affection behind the offer, sure, but also mischief.
I try, god, I try, not to grimace. But my face betrays me, and he sees it, clear as day.
He throws his head back and laughs. A real one, deep, rich, and unfiltered. It fills the room and warms the air.
“Come on now. You can teach me, can’t you? Just rest a bit, love. I can handle pasta. Who can fuck up pasta?”
“Who indeed?” I mutter under my breath, smirking. I swat his ass as he turns toward the kitchen, and he yelps, grinning like a lunatic.
He pulls out a box of pasta, some off-brand thing I’ve never seen before, chucks it in a pot, and sets it to boil.