Page 34 of Claiming Sarah

The raven and the phoenix. Together, intricately entwined, the future doesn’t seem so bleak.

The End.

EPILOGUE

ZAIDEN

My hands drag down my jeans, nails clawing up on the return. Sarah sits in the driver’s seat of her car, silently letting me process things. Sunlight makes the imposing house we’re parked in front of sparkle, white columns standing sentry near the door. Double French doors glare at me, whispering I do not belong.

I jump when a hand lands on my leg, looking over at my raven, who smiles softly at me.

“It’s okay to be nervous, Dayton, but unless you’re Zoe, Zaine won’t bite. Come on, let's go in and meet your brother.” Air saws in and out of my open mouth. Sarah’s right. I know she is.

“What if he doesn’t believe me?” I ask, bringing a hand to rub at the shaved sides of my head. I didn’t miss the appreciative gleam in Sarah’s eyes the first time she saw my new haircut. So, every two weeks, I go to get it shaved back down when it grows out, keeping the hairstyle for her, even though I miss the way my hair would brush my jaw, hiding my scars inpublic.

She leans over to brush a kiss across my lips, distracting me from the what-ifs swirling in my head.

“He won’t call you a liar. But we can always get a DNA test if he demands one. We can’t put this off forever.” Her breath brushes my lips, smelling of vanilla and strawberries from the latte and French toast we had at one of her favorite breakfast spots.

I’ve put this encounter off for two months, attending therapy once a week with a colleague of Sarah’s, alternating medications until I discover something that doesn’t make me feel like a zombie, and prepping for a surprise proposal to Sarah.

She’d let me take my time until this week, bringing it up in every conversation until I caved. My eyes shoot to her stomach, hidden behind her sundress.

She’s hiding something, a voice whispers in my head, but I’m not sure if it’s paranoia talking or intuition.

“Let’s go,” I agree, pulling back and pushing the door open, hot air ruffling my clothes. Rounding the car, Sarah entwines our hands when she reaches me, and we walk hand in hand toward the door.

ZAINE

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks is how long I held out. I snapped, craving Zoe’s flavor on my tongue like a damned addict. My mouse gives me a coy smile, pulling the straps of her dress down, exposing her full breasts and nipples a shade darker than her skin. Saliva pools in my mouth, and I pray to all that is unholy that Zaria stays down for her nap.

The bed dips as I crawl to my pet, my cock an excruciatingache in my pelvis, but I can’t put it inside her for another three fucking weeks. That wait is agonizing, and I’m seriously reconsidering filling her up with another child. I can’t take not having her writhing beneath me, moans in my ear, walls clenching around my cock.

My hand brushes her bare thigh, sliding up and shoving the material of her nightgown out of the way. A lacy red thong shields her sex from me, and I can’t wait to shove it aside to have Zoe’s nectar coating my tongue. Blood rushes in my ears and?—

Knock. Knock.

“Son of a bitch!” I shout, momentarily forgetting my sleeping daughter in her bassinet, who wakes with a startled cry. Zoe slaps my hand away with a disapproving glare, reaching down into the attached bassinet for Zaria.

Can a man not eat pussy in peace? For fuck’s sake!

“Yes, Tessa,” I snap, patience disappearing like smoke. My eyes never leave the breast Zoe brings to Zaria’s grasping mouth, a frustrated cry leaving her when she can’t latch. If I wasn’t so damn starved, I’d find the fussy infant amusing in her desperate grab for my fiancé’s nipple.

“You have company downstairs, sir,” Tessa speaks through the door, wise enough not to enter. I’m liable to commit fucking murder for thirty uninterrupted minutes alone with my future bride.

Whoever is downstairs better fucking pray I don’t follow through with it, getting out of bed with an aching cock straining my slacks.

SARAH

The housekeeper—Tess, I believe, is her name—answered the door and led us into an opulent sitting room. Red drapes and slate faux wood blinds shield the sun’s rays from infiltrating the spacious room. Three chaise lounges encircle a glass coffee table. A full-service bar rests along one wall, and built-in bookshelves boasting a variety of titles line the other wall.

Dayton paces the length of the room, hand rubbing at his nape, boots sliding across the plush carpet. If he notices the decor, he doesn’t comment, eyes bouncing in every direction. He’s restless, and I don’t know the words to calm him. He’d made so much progress in the two months since he showed up at my job hours before I helped deliver Ms. Cynthia’s child.

Sliding a hand down the front of my dress, I contemplate how to deliver the news of our own child. The words always get stuck on my tongue. Only Dr. Leblanc knows. Three failed IVFs in the twenty-plus years since I adopted Lauren, and my miracle child comes from the seed of a Lasher. I am not oblivious to the irony.

“You’re going to burn a hole in my floor,” a smooth voice clips from the open doorway. Both of our heads snap toward Zaine, cool blue eyes jumping from me and back to Dayton, who rubs his hands up and down his pants legs.

“Zaine. How’s mother and child?” I ask, breaking the ice with small talk. His lips don’t shift into a smile, but a glimmer of appreciation slips into his eyes.

---