Page 184 of Severed Rivalry
He drinks from me like a man parched by the desert sun in August. And I’m here for it.
I take as he gives and then give in return.
We’re both panting when he pulls back. He’s hard, and his eyes are wild.
I stare over his shoulder at the blinding ring on my left hand. “Did you just ask me to marry you when I’m covered in coffee, with crazy hair and yesterday’s mascara all over my cheeks?”
“No.” He must see the look on my face because he goes on quickly. “I didn’t ask for one day. I asked for you every day of forever. You in spilled coffee. You in a hospital gown. You, however you come. Today’s as good a day as any to begin our forever.”
I faceplant into his chest and sob.
It goes on long enough that he scoops me up like a groom would a bride and returns to the sofa. At that thought, the tears flow even harder.
Now I’m covered in coffee, bruised, and have a red, splotchy face with a warm, swollen nose. And I’m cocooned in his lap as he holds me.
Eventually the tears subside, and I’m left feeling silly… but wholly loved. Cherished even.
“When did you do this?” I hold my ring out, sniffling.
“Before the wires came off, before the date that never was.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He kisses my forehead. “It’s always been you. It’s only ever been you.”
I look into his face. “I can’t wait to be your wife.”
“Is today too soon?”
I laugh and stroke the two days’ worth of stubble on his chin. “Yes. But only because of the bruises.”
“Okay, fine.” He fakes being deflated, but I know inside it’s partially true. “But soon.”
“I can’t wait to be a Murphy.” It comes out as a whisper. The heaviness of that truth has its own weight in the room.
A thought occurs to me. “What about Renée?”
His eyes hold mine. “I’m ready when she’s ready, but it gets to be her choice.”
I couldn’t love this man any more than I already do. If I could, this moment would have sealed it. And if that weren’t obvious by the look on my face, the stupid sniffles returning would be enough.
54
overrun the circus
Sariah
A week has come and gone. The last vestiges of my worst bruises remain and have melted into a sickly yellow.
Renée’s concussion is no longer a threat. But that child with a cast is. She wields it like a shield. Or, worse, a weapon. I swear she’s knocked the paint off the walls with some of her near misses with corners. How did I never see that before?
Cian arranged during our week of rest and recovery for everything from our house to be moved into a pod. That box now sits in his driveway, conveniently blocking my car in.
He brought in professional cleaners to give it a once over and have it ready for Freddie’s arrival. He worked up the leasing agreement which basically says if the man breathes wrong in my house, he’ll be homeless and penniless. It also says that it’s Renée’s official address for school purposes.
We’re not lie-to-the-government people.
Then again, maybe we are.
