She beckoned Cam closer, bringing us all into a huddle as she stroked the dainty hand of our baby boy. “Thisis Finan Saint. And over there...” She met Rubi’s gaze. “The little girl you’re so scared of already... this is Donavan—Donavan Lark.”
Rubi melted. “Really?”
Orla nodded, and he really did cry then. Cam wasn’t much better off, and I knew we’d been right to believe that naming our son after Saint instead of him would mean so much more.
The room settled down. But Orla looked at me again. We weren’t done.
“There’s something else.”
Every gaze turned to me, even Locke’s, confusion hazing his eyes.
“Rubi said McGovern.” I took a breath. “But I told Alexei a while ago I’d never give any kid we had that name. And I meant it. If it’s all right with you”—I looked straight at Locke—“They’re going to be Halliwells.”
A pause stretched out. Locke didn’t blink. Then his answering embrace became the only reason I was lucky not to be holding a baby. He crushed me in his arms, swamping me in the love and safety I’d never known I needed so badly until I met him.
He swept me off my feet, spinning me in a slow circle. “Are you sure? Cos there’s already a bunch of unruly Halliwells cursing the earth.”
“Speak for yourself,” Logan deadpanned.
Locke laughed but held my gaze. “Are you fuckin’ sure?”
I kissed him. Just once. “I’m fucking sure.”
So much love filled his eyes, filled the whole fucking room, I could barely stand it. But our time together ticked away, and it seemed as if only a minute passed before the midwife came to evict our visitors.
Needing some air, I walked out with Logan, taking note of the wince and limp he’d somehow managed to conceal from Locke, the grimace as he rotated his shoulder, injuries from a fucked-up fire he’d kept from his twin but shared with me.
I hated that he’d been hurt.
Loved that he’d trusted me enough to confide in me and save Locke the worry.
“How’s Galen doing?”
We reached Logan’s car. He leaned against it, still massaging his shoulder. “Better. He’s gone to stay with his parents for a bit. If he can survive that, he’ll be grand.”
“You almost sound Irish.”
Logan smiled, so much like Locke but so...notat the same time. “He’s been my best friend since he joined the station ten years ago. I don’t know what I’d have done if he hadn’t pulled through.”
Knew that feeling a hundred times over. And knew better than to dwell on that. “What about the other thing we’re not going to talk about yet?”
Logan thought hard, like he always did before he opened his mouth, a lesson the rest of us were still learning. Then he pulled me into a life-affirming hug. “So far so good, brother.”
32
FOLK
There’d been times in my life, recent and past, when I’d felt completely disconnected from my body. Pain and pleasure had been real, but I’d lacked the presence to acknowledge them for what they were.
Pain, a scar from the past.
Pleasure, an anchor to the present.
Somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten the perfection of the heady mix ofboth.
Seth pushed me down on the bed, no hesitance in hands as hard as they were gentle. He knew me—what I wanted and what I could take, and the nuanced difference between the two that I was too caught up in to work out for myself. He knew because he’d cared enough to learn. Because he loved me. And that knowledge held me tight as he pressed inside me, wicked and deep, regaining the rhythm we’d lost to switch positions.
He’d cut his hair two days after we’d got back from scattering Rocco, as if he’d been shedding his skin ofmyghosts. The beard had stayed. I slid my fingers through it, arching my back.