Page 67 of Calypso's Shield
Across the room, Farris is getting swarmed by the Royal Bastards, each one of them taking turns patting him on the back, making jokes about how the big bad ex-cop is officially a soft-ass daddy now.
I watch him roll his eyes at Blayze’s comment, but he’s grinning the whole time, pride written all over his face as he keeps our daughter tucked protectively against him.
Then, as if feeling my stare, he glances up, his gaze locking onto mine. And in that moment, I don’t see the battle-hardened killer, the man who’s spent his life carrying the weight of other people’s sins.
I see Farris. The man who loves me, the man who fought for me. The man who would tear the world apart before he let anything happen to our daughter.
And I finally let go.
I let go of the fear, the doubt. The weight of my past tells me I don’t deserve this, but I do.
I step forward, my heart hammering as I press my palm against our daughter’s tiny back, the warmth of Farris’s skin beneath my fingers. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, his lips lingering.
“She’s got your fire,” he whispers against my hair.
I smirk. “And your attitude.”
His chest rumbles with laughter. “Yeah, we’re screwed.”
A small noise escapes our daughter, a soft little sound that’s barely there, but it shatters me.
I tighten my grip on Farris, my lips brushing against my daughter’s soft hair as I whisper, “I’ve got you, baby girl, always.”
Farris’s hand finds mine, his fingers threading through mine as he echoes the promise.
Always.
This is it. This is the life I never thought I’d have, the kind of happiness I never let myself believe in, but now I have it, and I’ll fight like hell to keep it.
A FEW MONTHS LATER
Our house is finally a home. There are pictures on the walls, boots by the front door, and baby blankets draped over the couch.
Outside, the clubs are gathered for a barbecue, laughter ringing through the air, the scent of grilled food mixing with the ever-present burn of gasoline and leather.
And in the middle of it all, Rebel. She’s sitting on the porch, a cigarette dangling from her fingers, her dark eyes scanning the crowd like she’s waiting for something or someone. Her dark hair spilling over her shoulder as she talks with French, our Club’s best damn numbers expert.
Rebel is all sharp edges and easy charm. She doesn’t just toe the line between legal and illegal, she fucking dances across it.
With her big brown eyes and a body that could make a man sign over his soul, she can get information out of anyone. But that’s not why she’s dangerous. She’s dangerous because she’s smart as hell.
“Where the hell have you been?” I call as I approach, shifting my daughter slightly. “You’ve been dodging my calls for days.”
Rebel smirks without looking up. “Had some shit to handle.”
French snorts. “More like someshadyshit to handle.”
Rebel winks, flicking her cigarette between her fingers. “Same thing.”
I sit on the steps next to them. “You in trouble?”
She finally looks up, and for the briefest second, something flickers in her gaze. Something dark. “No more than usual.”
I narrow my eyes. “Bullshit.”
Before she can answer, a Harley comes pulling into the driveway, and a familiar presence steps off his bike.
Rebel tenses. I follow her gaze and immediately recognize the man standing on the pavement.
