Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
I snort and get up to grab my phone to order the food when the doorbell rings.
We all freeze.
No one rings my doorbell. Ever. The security system should have alerted me to any approach, but when I check the panel, the feed shows nothing but static. My blood turns to ice. This kind of technical failure doesn’t happen by accident. Not with my systems.
Isaak’s already on his feet, Lily passed smoothly to Kira as his hand moves to the weapon at his hip. Good man. She grabs Lily’s car carrier in one hand, Lily pressed to her chest with her other, and scoots down the back hallway out of sight.
“Stay back,” I order, already moving toward the door. “My security feed must be glitching.”
“Like hell,” Moira mutters, but Bane’s arm around her waist keeps her on the couch.
I approach the door carefully, every sense on high alert. It could be enemies from the past finally catching up. Or Feds. Or even another message from her delivered in some cryptic way. It could be—
I yank the door open, ready for anything.
Except this.
A basket sits on my doorstep like something out of a goddamn fairytale. Wicker and innocent-looking, covered with a soft blue blanket that shifts slightly in the evening breeze.
No. Not the breeze.
My knees hit the concrete before conscious thought catches up. The impact jars through me, but I barely feel it. My hands shake—actually fucking shake—as I reach for the blanket. Some part of me already knows. Some primitive part recognizes what’s under that soft blue fabric before my eyes confirm it.
A baby.
Tiny. Perfect. A shock of black hair dark as mine. And when those eyes blink open? Christ, they’re the exact shade of blue I see in the mirror every morning. My mother’s eyes. My eyes.
The world tilts. Sounds fade. There’s just this: a baby on my doorstep with my eyes and a note pinned to the blanket.
My fingers fumble with the paper, clumsy as a child’s. The words blur, and I have to blink hard to focus.
Donny,
Meet your son, Connor. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring him myself, but there are still things I need to finish to keep you both safe. I’ll be home soon. I promise.
All my love, Anna
Connor. She named him Connor.
Something inside me breaks. The carefully constructed walls, the armor of anger and hurt, the cold control I’ve wrapped around myself like a shroud—it all crumbles. My son makes a small sound, not quite a cry, more like he’s testing his voice in this big new world, and I gather him into my arms with hands that have done terrible things but now cradle this miracle like spun glass.
“Domhn?” Moira’s voice comes from somewhere far away.
I can’t speak. Can’t form words around the earthquake happening in my chest. I just turn slightly, enough for them to see.
“Holy shit,” Moira breathes.
“Language,” Bane murmurs automatically, but his eyes are wide with shock.
Kira must not have gone very far, because she’s back, baby Lily stowed in her seat in the living room. “Bring him inside,” she orders. “Now. It’s too cold out here for a newborn.”
Newborn. My son. The words feel foreign and familiar all at once.
I stand carefully, Connor’s weight negligible in my arms but somehow grounding me to the Earth. Inside. Yes. Get my son somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. Somewhere I can process this impossible gift without the eyes of the world on us.
“There’s another basket,” Isaak reports from the doorway, already cataloging potential threats and necessities with that tactical mind of his. “Supplies. Formula, diapers, clothes.” He lifts it easily. “Everything’s labeled and organized. Military precision.”
Of course. That’s her way. Even in this—especially in this—she’s thorough. Making sure our son has everything he needs.
Our son.
I sink into my leather chair, the one Anna used to curl up in. Connor stays in my arms. I can’t let go. Won’t let go. He’s so small, so fragile. How is something this small even possible? How do lungs that tiny work? That heart beating against my chest—how does it know what to do?
“How old, do you think?” I ask Kira, my voice rough.
She moves closer, assessing with experienced eyes. “May I?”
I don’t want to let him go, but Kira’s got experience with babies I don’t. I let her examine him while he stays in my arms, watching as she checks his umbilical cord site, his color, and his reflexes.
“Two weeks, maybe three,” she says. “He’s healthy. Good weight, good color. She took excellent care of him.”
Two or three weeks. What was she doing two or three weeks ago? Where was she when our son was born? Did she have help? Was she alone? The questions burn in my throat.
“Can I see?” Moira edges closer, uncharacteristically tentative.
I angle Connor so she can see his face. Her breath catches.
“Oh fuck, he looks just like you.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Sorry. Shit. I mean—sorry.”