Aisling would make such a good mother.
My heart stumbles like it’s forgotten the rhythm as the realization hits me harder than a bullet.
I see it suddenly, vividly—Aisling in the morning light, laughter soft and real, a baby on her hip, safe and loved.
And just as quickly, it hits me that I might want that child to bemine. It’s a ridiculous, dangerous thought. Aisling hasn’t even said she wants whatever this is between us to be real. Neither have I.
This is still an arrangement, a means to an end. That’s what we agreed upon.
But after last night, it feels like everything has changed.
29
AISLING
Riley melts against my side the second I start reading, the way she always does when she’s safe and happy and sleepy after a full day of excitement—when she’s warm and fed and loved and absolutely certain nothing bad can reach her.
Her fingers curl into the hem of my shirt as if to anchor herself to me, lashes fluttering lower with every page I turn.
The book is about a dragon who hoards not gold but stories.
Riley picked it herself, as solemn as a priestess, because she likes dragons that aren’t lonely, she said.
And I know it’s because of how much she loved her game with Raf the first time she played with him—so much so that she’s still thinking about it, still processing the man she wants to know better, to understand, even as she sees him with the childlike lens through which she still views the world.
She is just so sweet, so good, so innocent.
And it melts my heart to hold her close and have this time with her.
My voice softens without my trying. The words slow and stretch. I tuck meaning into the spaces between sentences the way I always have, like I’m building her a world she can step into and hide inside if she needs to.
Her breathing evens out before I reach the end.
I keep reading anyway. Because this, right here, makes everything feel right in the world.
I smooth my thumb over her hair, kiss her forehead gently enough not to wake her, and sit there longer than necessary, memorizing the weight of her, the shape of her cheek, the faint wrinkle between her brows she gets from me.
My daughter. My world.
The thought is dangerous. I don’t usually let it surface like that—not since the moment I walked into that church, stood before Raf, and said, “I do.” And I never really let myself sit with it, to soak up the joys of loving someone so fiercely, so completely that the rest of the world could burst into flames and I wouldn’t notice. But tonight feels… softer.
Like the sharp edges of reality have been wrapped in velvet—just for this moment in time.
Eventually, I ease Riley down into the pillows, tuck the blanket up to her chin, and turn off the bedside lamp.
The room glows faintly from the hallway light, shadows stretching long and gently across the walls.
I slip out quietly and pull the door closed, nearly colliding with Raf as I turn.
He’s leaning against the wall just outside her room, arms folded, hazel eyes intent as he watches me.
My heart jumps straight into my throat. For one irrational, terrifying second, I’m convinced he knows.
That he sees my secret written all over my face.
That the truth has finally slipped through the cracks, betrayed by the way my shoulders soften around Riley, the way my entire soul rearranges itself when she’s near.
My pulse races as I school my expression, forcing my breathing to stay steady.
