Page 43 of Manic

And somehow, someway, I'll keep them safe from the dangers of this world.

It won't be easy.

Nothing worth having ever is.

But as I think about Tindra's smile, about the way Meghan's eyes soften when she looks at me, I know it'll be worth it.

The hours pass in a blur with half-hearted conversations.

I do my best to stay present, to engage with Magnus and the other brothers who drift in and out of the garage.

But I’d be lying if I said a part of me wasn’t elsewhere, counting down the minutes until I can see my girls again.

Finally, as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, I wipe my hands on a rag and step outside.

The evening air is cool against my skin, a welcome relief after the stuffy heat of the garage.

I pull out my phone, seeing a new text from Meghan:

We're making lasagna. Don't be late. 6pm.

A warmth spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with the weather.

I type out a quick reply:

I'll be there at 6, promise.

I'm about to head out when I hear the garage door slam shut behind me.

Turning, I see my old man.

The look on his face tells me he wants answers and he wants them now.

Magnus clears his throat and reads the room, “I’m gonna head inside for a bit.”

The second Magnus is gone, my father is grilling me.

"I thought I was good with not knowing shit, but I’m not. What the fuck is going on with Meghan?" he demands, not bothering with pleasantries as he strides toward me.

My heart races, but I force myself to stay calm.

I've been dreading this conversation, but I knew it was coming.

I take a deep breath, meeting his gaze steadily.

"Meghan was pregnant when we broke up all those years ago," I say, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess myself. "She had a baby girl... I have a daughter."

His eyes widen, his weathered face a mix of shock and disbelief.

For a long moment, he just stares at me, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head.

"Jesus Christ, Tor," he finally mutters, running a hand through his graying hair. "How long have you known?"

"About a week," I admit. "I wanted some time to process it, to get to know Tindra before I told anyone."

As I say this, my mind drifts to Arik, my "little brother" who's actually my biological son.

The irony of the situation isn't lost on me.

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