Page 93 of Myla: The Hawthornes

“I’m gonna piss you off,” he warned.

“I know.”

“There’s shit I’m not gonna tell you, and you’re gonna push because you don’t like it, and I’m gonna push back.”

“I know.”

“We’re gonna fight,” he murmured, peeling his cut off his shoulders.

“We always fight.”

“We do this,” he said, tossing his cut on the foot of the bed. “There won’t be any more ignorin’ my calls and givin’ me the silent treatment. That’s done.”

“It’s done,” I agreed as he reached for his belt.

“Myla,” he called. He waited until I’d dragged my gaze away from his hands and met his eyes.

“I’m not playin’. You donotget to check out. Not ever,” he said harshly. “You do, and I’m done. You will no longer exist for me.”

My heart raced. “I won’t.”

“I want babies,” he continued, knocking the breath from my lungs. “I want my ring on your finger. I want you to have my back with them—” He pointed to the hallway behind me. “And with your family.”

I opened my mouth to argue that he already did, then snapped it shut again. How many times had I discussed Cian with the girls? How many times had I complained to my mom? He’d never said anything—but he knew. He knew I’d been doing it. It was impossible to miss when Frankie was making snarky comments any time Cian and I fought.

“Yeah,” he murmured as it sunk in.

“I want kids,” I replied softly.

“Two.”

“Three. No, four.”

He stared. “We’ll discuss it.”

“I’m good with that,” I replied quickly.

“It tears me up when you’re gone, baby,” he said softly.

“I won’t do it again,” I rasped. “I promise.”

He nodded slowly. “Then close the door and lose the towel.”

Chapter 14

Myla

Iturned onshaky legs and softly closed the door behind me, flipping the lock.

Sex with Cian was something I’d fantasized about a million times, but I’d always imagined that it would happen organically on some night when we’d been drinking and affectionate and let things get out of hand. I’d never envisioned that I would be standing in nothing but a towel discussing babies and marriage before he’d even touched me.

It was almost impossible to turn back around.

“Myla?”

I turned to take him in. His head was tipped to the side in question, and his sandy brown hair hung around his face in wet waves. The sweatshirt he was wearing was dry in spots the cut had covered, but the rest of it was soaked, and so were his jeans. The wet fabric clung to every muscle and bulge. His hands hung at his sides, not quite relaxed. His blue eyes were intent as my gaze moved back up his body.

He was Cian. My person. My love.

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