The relief was so profound that it nearly hurt.
It did hurt.
But Vincent was there. He was there to hold me in his arms. He was there to comfort me. To kiss me. And apparently, despite his injuries, he planned to make love to me.
I could tell because he was already aroused.
He made no move to take me, to initiate the next step, to get into the bed, where we both knew we would be before long.
He simply held me. He let me grieve. He let me feel the changing of the guard. The tides. The seasons.
He pressed soft kisses into my hair as all the pain poured out of me. I soaked his shirt with my tears. My sadness was like a hurricane, and he absorbed every bit of it. He received every teardrop.
When the storm finally passed, I was whole again.
“Thank you, Vincent. I can never thank you enough.”
“You don’t have to thank me for killing him.”
“I’m not thanking you for that. I’m thanking you for bringing me back to life.”
I looked up at him. He smiled at me tenderly. We kissed softly before I brushed the tears off my face and ran to the bathroom to freshen up. When I emerged, he was standing by the window, waiting for me.
“I have a picture of you. Here,” he said, gesturing to the window seat. His eyes were full of promise. I nodded. I had promises of my own to keep.
“Come. I want you to meet my daughter. It is time.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Vincent
“Angelique, this is my very special friend, Vincent.”
“Hello.”
A serious little girl stared at me, her eyes wide and clear. She looked so much like her mother at that age that it nearly undid me.
“It is very nice to meet you, Angelique. I have heard so much about you.”
“You have?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Like what?” she challenged me impishly. Clearly, she was no slouch in the brains department. She knew I was just being complimentary.
“I heard that you were a knight.”
“You did?” she asked, looking enthralled. She leaned forward on her stomach and perched that sharp little chin in her hands.
“Yes,” I said solemnly. “I heard you are often off on a quest. Usually for something sweet to eat.”
She giggled.
“I do like pie.”
“Which is your favorite kind of pie?”
“Key lime.”
“I shall endeavor to procure some for you, my lady.”
She giggled and scrambled to her knees on the bed, rushing over to whisper something in her mother’s ears. Seeing them together like that, mother and child, did something to my insides.
They were so beautiful, so alike, so precious. I would kill for them again in a heartbeat. I would do anything. I would die for them, too.
I felt it in my heart in that moment. My hopes and dreams. The sort of dreams I had been afraid to wish for or even imagine. I wasn’t just looking at my future wife, the mother of my children.
I was looking at my daughter, too.
It didn’t matter that I had killed her father. I would do it again, even if she loved him. Children were capable of loving monsters. I knew it well. I had loved my own father, despite his lack of kindness or compassion.
Looking at her now, I didn’t regret taking her father out of the picture. I’d done it to protect her. It had been the right thing to do.
When a dog goes mad, you have to put it down.
She was my daughter now. Even if she missed her father forever, I would make it up to her. I would fill her life with key lime pie and rainbows. I would protect her until my last breath.
I would protect both of them for as long as I lived on this earth.
And beyond, if I could manage it. I liked the idea of watching over her for the rest of her lives, even if mine was over. It gave me a new, sudden clarity of purpose.
“All right, love. You get into bed. I will send Maria to read you a bedtime story.”
“I want Vincent to read it,” Angelique said shyly.
Francesca shot me a surprised look. It was clear that this was an honor. I bowed solemnly and accepted the book from Francesca. She patted the bed beside her. When I started to read, she rested her head on my shoulder and listened too.
And there began a new tradition. The three of us, getting ready for bed, reading a story together. A tradition that I hoped would continue for the rest of my natural life.
Or until Angelique was a teenager, at least.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Francesca
“Be still,” I said, fussing over the giant man who was doggedly trying to take my clothes off. He was determined, it seemed, but beyond reckless to think he could or should be making love in his current condition. “You are injured.”
“Not injured enough,” he said, looking as if I had offended his manhood. “Never too injured for this.”