Page 31 of Reign

I allow Ahmar’s curses at pedestrians and derby-bound taxis to settle around me like a comforting blanket, happy to make the ride in the city’s version of a quiet evening.

When he pulls up to Meyer House, I straighten out of my relaxed flop against the passenger door.

“Here you are, kiddo.”

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“Nah. Not today. This is a moment you should enjoy with Pete and Lynda.”

I ask, while reaching through the middle console for my duffel, “Have you met Blair yet?”

“Sure have. She’s a cutie.” Ahmar winks. “But you’ll always be my baby girl.”

The endearment pulls at the leaden chain in my chest. “Thanks, Ahmar. For the pickup, for the ride, for the…”

“Lack of interrogation?” Another wink. “You deserve a breather. Enjoy your time with your new baby sister. We’ll meet up for coffee in a few days.”

I’m not so mixed up that I can’t sense the promise in the question. We’ll be having a serious talk is all but scrolling in blinking red lights under his brows.

I nod, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Got it.”

Ahmar hasn’t shaved in a few days, his scruff grating against my lips more than usual. I pull back, inspecting him and noticing the purple crescents under his eyes. “Are you sleeping okay?”

“Child, leave.” He shoves me affectionately on the shoulder. “We’ll have our mutual come to Jesus moments when I pick you up for pancakes. I’ll text you.”

“Okay,” I say, but I leave him behind with great reluctance. It’s not often I witness Ahmar appearing less than put-together. He uses his tailored appearance as somewhat of a shield to the murder and mayhem he witnesses constantly, taking his time grooming and making weekly barber appointments to counteract the ugliness of other humans.

I’ve seen him scruffy and unkempt in only one other situation, and I prefer not to dwell on it as I step up to Meyer House’s stoop and watch his headlights disappear into the evening haze.

I take the rest of the stairs on a sigh, then stop, hovering near the door. Three months of residency doesn’t give me the confidence to saunter in, nor am I considered just a visitor.

My fingers curl over the iron knocker, and I swing it against the door a few times before turning the knob and pushing in—falling somewhere in between.

“Hello?” I call, sliding my bag off my shoulders.

No answer.

Leaving my bag in the foyer, I take the curving staircase, my palm brushing against the cold, solid brass of the railing. “Anyone home?”

The lights are dimmed but not shut off. They have to be around here somewhere.

When the second floor gives me nothing, I make my way to the third, and that’s where I find them.

“Hi—”

“Shh!” Dad shushes me, though it’s seemingly not enough because he also elbow-wrestles me out of the nursery. “We just got her to sleep.”

“Oh, sorry,” I say in a much softer voice, but peer over his shoulder.

“You want to see her?” he whispers, then nudges me forward. “Go on. But carefully. And with no footsteps.”

Cautiously, I creep into the room, the white trim of the curtains and bassinet framing the shadows with lace.

Blair’s face comes into view as I stop beside Lynda, a slip of white cheek peering out of the blanket wrapped tightly around the tiny form.

Impossibly small fingers appear under Blair’s neck, sneaking out of her wrapping as she spreads them wide, then clenches them closed again. She coos, her eyes crescents of slumber, and does a little wiggle in her pink cocoon.

“She’s like a dancing burrito,” I murmur, but the smile crossing my face is warm, real, and wide.

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