Page 34 of Serpent & Saviors

I pinched my thigh beneath the table, sharp enough to force my focus. The sting grounded me. I smoothed my dress, rubbing the spot where the pain lingered. My own personal anchor.

The truth couldn’t come out. But Declan could.

I inhaled slowly, bracing myself, then reached for the water glass in front of me. The condensation kissed my fingers as I lifted it, taking a measured sip to stall for time.

“Well…it’s been quite a journey, actually,” I said at last, my voice softer than I intended. Setting the glass down carefully, I picked up my fork and absentmindedly cut into a roasted potato.

“I have a son,” I continued. “He’s six now. He’s absolutely crazy about football. Go Manchester United.” A nervous chuckle escaped, and I forced a smile. “He can talk for hours about it, if you let him. He can tell you each of the players, their strengths and weaknesses.”

Eleanor beamed, her face lighting up. “Oh, how wonderful! A little footballer in the making, I see.”

“Does he play the piano like his mother?” Andrew asked.

My gaze snapped to his. That flirty dimple flashed, stealing my breath for a moment as my eyes caught on the curve of his mouth. Visions of him looking up at me from between my legs played in a loop in my mind.

I blinked hard, forcing the flutter down. “No,” I replied, recovering quickly. “He’s more of an artist, actually. Incredibly talented at drawing. He could hold a crayon adaptively at five months and was scribbling spontaneously by seven months.”

I felt myself rambling, but once I started talking about Declan, it was hard to stop. The words tumbled out, eager and proud.

Andrew’s brow quirked. Was that a spark of amusement? Or was it surprise lighting his eyes? I grabbed my water glass and took a hasty sip, hoping it masked the sudden spike of nerves.

“Neuro-typical children his age can draw a person with a neck, hands, and clothes,” I added, setting the glass down. “He had that mastered by the time he was three and a half.”

“Does he take lessons, then?” Eleanor asked gently.

“No.” My voice caught on the single syllable, and I looked down at my plate, suddenly too aware of the way the air tightened around me.

Cameron thought art lessons were a joke. A stupid indulgence he refused to allow. The one and only time I’d brought it up, I’d been met with a chilling smile and a cruel suggestion about what might happen to Declan’s hands if I pushed the matter again.

Part of me still clung to the hope that he wouldn’t actually hurt him. But the truth—the real, ugly truth—was that I didn’t know. And that was terrifying.

Secretly, Declan loved art even more than football. But over the years, he’d learned to keep that joy tucked away, reserved only for his nanny and me. It was his secret gift, just as much as it was mine to protect.

“Do you have any pictures of him?” Eleanor asked, her tone softer now. She must have sensed the shift.

“Pictures?” I echoed, thrown off.

“Yes, on your phone?”

My hand paused halfway to my fork. “Oh, um…I’m the worst at taking pictures,” I said with a weak laugh, trying to steer the conversation away from the trap it was becoming. “I almost always get my finger in the way or the lighting is awful.” I shrugged.

The half-lie tasted bitter, but I forced another bite into my mouth, chewing more for distraction than hunger as Eleanor and Andrew exchanged a glance I didn’t quite have the courage to meet.

That nagging voice inside screamed louder now. It was demanding—urging me to take the opportunity being handed to me and run with it. Run and never look back.

Andrew’s phone buzzed on the table, followed by the now-familiar ringtone slicing through the stillness.

Her.

“I’ve got to take this,” he said quickly, rising from his seat and stepping away. “Now, now. It’s only a week,” I heard him murmur into the phone, voice low and careful.

Eleanor smiled gently, leaning a little toward the sound. “Tell her I love her,” she called sweetly after him.

My gaze dropped to my lap as guilt rushed in, hot and suffocating. My fingers curled into my dress. What was I doing? Andrew had a life. Someone who loved him. And I was well…a broken woman sitting at a stranger’s table pretending I still had a place in this world.

He shouldn’t be here with me. He had to feel torn, being pulled between his very real obligations to her and whatever mess I represented. Eleanor turned to me again, her focus soft but unflinching.

“So Andy told me you two first met at that little blue teahouse in town…and then again at a club?”