Page 100 of Deception & Desire

“Keep talking,” he says, his voice a raw whisper.

I do, recounting little moments—our arguments, impassioned kisses, the first time we held the twins together.

His breathing steadies, though his grip on my hand remains firm like I’m his tether to something beyond the pain.

At last, I tie off the thread, sitting back with a shaky exhale.

“Done,” I whisper, brushing a hand through his damp hair.

Leon’s gaze is heavy, full of something I can’t quite name. “You’re...incredible.”

My throat tightens as his eyes flutter closed. His breathing immediately slows into unconsciousness.

I watch him for a moment, entirely overwhelmed by the last few days, before sinking into bed next to him. Everything else can wait a while.

“I love you too.”

30

LEON

The days blur together, a haze of pain, exhaustion, and fleeting lucidity. I drift in and out of consciousness, the world around me reduced to fragments of sensation and sound.

Mia is the constant in the haze. Her warmth is always by my side at night, her hands fussing with blankets, smoothing over my forehead, or checking my bandages.

Sometimes, I wake to the sound of her humming softly, the melody tugging at some buried corner of my heart. Other times, I catch the edge of her whispered words—half-lovely, half-threatening.

Never those same words I heard through the exhaustion that first night.

When I’m awake long enough to speak, I try to reassure her, but the effort always drains me.

“I’m...fine,” I manage once, my voice barely above a rasp.

She glares at me, her eyes red-rimmed but fierce. “What you are is stubborn. Go back to sleep.”

But her harshness is always mellowed by her touches: a soft press of her hand on mine, a gentle kiss on my forehead.

Then, one day, the haze clears enough for a singular moment of clarity. I wake to a tiny weight being placed in my arms.

“Easy,” Mia whispers, guiding my hands. I look down and see our daughter, Liza. Her little fists wave in the air, her eyes squinting up at me, and for a second, I can’t breathe.

“She’s beautiful,” I manage, my voice cracking. Mia smiles, though her eyes shimmer with tears.

“And here’s her brother,” she says, placing Luca in the crook of my other arm.

My chest tightens—not with pain this time, but with something deeper, something anchoring.

“Your Aunty Isabella has been taking such good care of you, hasn’t she?” Mia coos at them both. “I’ll put them to bed soon. I just wanted them to say hello.”

“It’s good to have them both back,” I breathe.

Mia’s expression softens. “Our family is back together again.”

As the weeks pass, the fog of pain and countering medicines lifts. But my mobility remains limited.

Mia doesn’t let me wallow, not even for a second.

“If you’re strong enough to argue, you’re strong enough to heal,” she says one day, propping pillows behind me.

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