Page 40 of Haunted By the Storm
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest where my hand rests. "Must be all that time spent around you. Some of it was bound to rub off eventually."
Across the room, Emily spots us dancing and waves excitedly. Storm waves back, his smile genuine and warm in a way few people ever get to see.
"She likes you," I observe. "A lot."
"Feeling's mutual," he says simply. "She's a great kid. Smart, brave, kind. Like her mom."
Warmth blooms in my chest at the compliment. "I don't always feel very brave."
"Bravery isn't about not being afraid," he says, his voice low and intense. "It's about being scared as hell and doing what needs to be done anyway. By that definition, you're the bravest person I know."
Before I can respond to this unexpected declaration, Emily comes bounding over, her wings slightly drooping from hours of energetic play.
"Storm! You promised to dance with me too!" she reminds him, tugging at his hand.
He looks down at her, then back at me, a question in his eyes. I nod, stepping back to give them space.
"I did promise," he agrees solemnly, crouching down to Emily's level. "And I always keep my promises. May I have this dance, Miss. Butterfly?"
Emily giggles, placing her small hand in his large one. "Yes, Mr. Pirate."
I watch as Storm leads my daughter in a gentle dance, modifying his steps to match her smaller ones, spinning her carefully so her wings don't tangle. The sight of them together, this imposing biker with his scars and tattoos, treating my little girl with such tenderness, makes my heart swell with an emotion I'm not quite ready to name.
But as the night continues, as I watch Emily dance and laugh and eventually fall asleep in Storm's arms, her butterfly wings drooping with exhaustion, I can no longer deny the truth I've been avoiding:
I'm falling for him. Hard and fast and against all better judgment.
And judging by the way he looks at me over Emily's sleeping form, the feeling might just be mutual.
CHAPTER TEN
storm
Emily feels like a feather in my arms, a small bundle of butterfly wings and exhaustion. Her head rests against my shoulder, mouth slightly open in sleep, one hand still clutching a chocolate bar she refused to surrender even as her eyes drooped closed.
Camryn walks beside me as we climb the stairs to her room, her own fairy wings slightly worse for wear after the night's events. She keeps glancing at me holding her daughter, an expression in her eyes I can't quite decipher.
"You didn't have to carry her," she says softly as we reach her door. "I could have managed."
"I don't mind," I tell her, shifting Emily gently as Camryn unlocks the door. "She weighs about as much as my boots."
A small smile tugs at her lips. "Still. Thank you."
The room is dark and quiet as we enter, a stark contrast to the noise and chaos of the Halloween party still going strong downstairs. Camryn leads the way to Emily's bedroom, turning on a small bedside lamp that casts soft, golden light across the space.
I lay Emily carefully on the bed, trying not to disturb her wings. Camryn moves in, deftly removing the costume pieces with the practiced ease of a mother who's done this many times before. I step back, giving her space to work, but I don't leave. There's something mesmerizing about watching her with Emily; the gentle way she eases the sleeping child out of her costume; the soft murmurs of reassurance when Emily stirs; the love so evident in every touch. It makes my chest ache with a longing I've never felt before.
When Emily is settled under the covers, butterfly wings hung carefully on a hook on the wall, Camryn leans down to press a kiss to her daughter's forehead. "Sweet dreams, baby," she whispers.
I follow her out of the room, closing the door softly behind us. In the living room, Camryn begins removing her own wings, wincing slightly as she reaches for the straps around her shoulders.
"Let me help," I offer, stepping closer.
She hesitates, then nods, turning her back to me. I work the fastenings carefully, my fingers brushing against the soft skin at the nape of her neck. She shivers slightly at the contact.
"Cold?" I ask, though I suspect that's not the reason.
"No," she admits, turning to face me once the wings are removed. "Not cold."
