Page 114 of Rampage

"There's my princess," I murmur, lifting her high above my head as she squeals with delight. The scent of baby shampoo and something inherently Eleanor fills my senses as I bring her close, pressing kisses to her pudgy cheeks.

Lily rises gracefully, crossing the room to greet me with a kiss that still makes my heart race after all this time. "How was work?" she asks, her hand lingering on my chest.

"Better now," I reply, shifting Eleanor to one arm so I can pull Lily closer. "The ER was packed, but nothing too serious."

Our daughter squirms impatiently between us, patting my face with sticky hands. "Down, Dada! Blocks!"

I set her carefully on her feet, watching as she toddles determinedly back to her toys. The pride that swells in my chest at her smallest achievements never diminishes.

"She's been asking for you all day," Lily says softly, leaning into my side. "Kept looking at the door saying, 'Dada work, fix people.'"

The simple phrase tightens something in my chest. "Smart girl," I murmur, unable to tear my eyes away from our daughter. "Takes after her mother."

Lily laughs, the sound warming me from the inside out. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Dr. Matthews." She presses another quick kiss to my lips before heading toward the kitchen. "Dinner's almost ready. Eleanor helped make the biscuits."

"Is that why there's flour in her hair?" I call after her, chuckling as I shrug off my jacket and join our daughter on the floor.

Eleanor immediately hands me a block, her expression serious. "Build big, Dada."

"Yes, ma'am," I say with exaggerated solemnity, accepting the block with a formal nod that makes her giggle.

I stack the blocks carefully, letting her add one whenever she toddles forward with a new contribution. Her concentrated expression—tongue caught between her teeth, brow furrowed—is pure Lily, and it makes my heart contract with a love so fierce it's almost painful.

"Dr. Reid Matthews, pediatric doctor, building block towers on his living room floor," Lane's amused voice comes from the doorway. I hadn't heard him enter, but Eleanor squeals with recognition.

"Unca Lane!" she announces, abandoning our tower to charge toward him with arms outstretched.

Lane scoops her up effortlessly, tossing her high enough to make her shriek with delight before settling her on his hip. "There's my favorite little lady. Getting bigger every day, aren't you?"

I rise from the floor, clasping Lane's shoulder in greeting. "Didn't expect you tonight."

"Just dropped by to deliver some news," he says, his expression turning serious despite Eleanor's attempts to capture his beard in her tiny fists. "Frank Dawson died in prison yesterday."

The name sends a chill through me, though it's been years since we spoke it aloud in this house. "How?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

Lane's eyes meet mine meaningfully. "Officially? Complications from his injuries. Infection. The prison medical system isn't exactly top-notch."

I nod, understanding what remains unsaid. The injuries I inflicted had finally claimed him, as intended. Not quickly, not painlessly, but inexorably.

"Lily should know," I say quietly.

"Know what?" Lily appears in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her eyes dart between us, immediately sensing a shift in the atmosphere.

Lane bounces Eleanor gently, distracting her as I cross to Lily and take her hands in mine.

"Frank's dead," I tell her, watching her face carefully. "He died in prison yesterday."

Her expression remains still for a long moment, processing. Then she exhales slowly, her shoulders dropping as if releasing a weight she's carried so long she'd forgotten it was there.

"It's really over then," she whispers.

"Yes," I confirm, squeezing her hands. "It's over."

Lane clears his throat. "I'll take the little one outside to see the new motorcycle for a minute. Give you two a moment."

Once they're gone, Lily collapses against me, her body trembling slightly. I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight against my chest.

"Are you okay?" I murmur into her hair.

She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and I'm surprised to find no tears, only a clear, steady gaze. "I'm free," she says. "Completely free."

She runs her fingers along my jaw, to the back of my head, and the intense way she is looking at me almost floors me.

A slow, wicked smile slowly slides over her face. “Oh, yeah, by the way, there is another bun in the oven.” She drops the bomb on me and I throw my head back laughing.

“Fuck yeah.”

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