Fire Night (Devil's Night 4.5)

“Damon…” Winter whispered, knowing something was wrong.

“I’m not a good father.” I breathed out a sigh, clutching her. “Ivarsen has no discipline. He’s going to be undriven. Fane is neurotic. Everything has to be perfect. Gunnar is going to blow us up with his machines. Dag has refused to eat a vegetable since birth, and Octavia’s going to wind up in a fucking asylum when she finds out real life pirates are just terrorists with grenade launchers.” I gulped, hating that after thousands of years there was still no proven method of raising kids. “I don’t know what to do. How the hell would I know what a good parent does and doesn’t do?”

I was just as ignorant as Christiane was when she had me. Kai was right. They had a better chance at life with more guidance. I was doing everything wrong.

Winter’s arms finally wrapped around me, and she pressed her lips to my temple, her breasts flush against my body.

“A good parent has happy kids,” she whispered in my ear. “Our kids are so happy.”

She kissed my cheek and then my lips, soft and slow. I closed my eyes, reveling in the sound of the water and the feel of her.

“They’re so happy,” she told me again. “And so in love with you.”

A flutter hit my stomach, and I smiled a little, unable to hold it back. They do love me, don’t they?

“And I’m so happy,” she added.

I pulled back, looking at her as my thoughts started to come into focus again. It didn’t happen often, but it was hard not to compare myself. Kai’s kids had great manners and were fairly quiet. Athos was smart, ambitious, and determined. Will’s children never fought him on anything. They did what they were told the first time he asked.

My kids…

But I stopped the thought in its tracks, remembering Ivar helping his mom make pancakes this morning.

My kids could be really sweet, actually, couldn’t they?

Gunnar was so good about helping with spills, so his mom wouldn’t slip. Fane helped her pick out books at the store for Dag and Octavia, describing the pictures and story, so she knew what to buy.

They were good kids. I drew in a breath and exhaled, letting the worry go for now. We were doing a good job.

“Better?” she whispered, kissing my jaw and caressing my neck.

My eyelids fluttered closed, and I nodded. “Don’t stop.”

She grinded against me, and I started to harden, my hand palming her breast, but then a high-pitched sound penetrated the ceiling above our heads, and we both stopped, looking up.

“Was that a scream?” she asked.

I groaned. What now?

I kissed her, her red lips soft and warm as I caressed her cold cheeks. Pulling back, I gazed down at her through the intricate silver metal mask that covered her forehead, her eyes staring up at me through the slits in the design.

Leaning in, she breathed over my mouth and slid a quick hand down my pants, grabbing me. “You think your wife suspects anything?” she teased.

I gasped as she fisted me, not caring about anything right now other than to see her butt-assed naked, except for that mask on her head.

I grinned, nibbling her bottom lip. “Who cares?” I taunted. “Nothing is keeping me off of you.”

Emmy smiled, sinking her mouth into mine and pulling her hand off me, so she could wrap her arms around my neck.

“I love you so much,” my wife told me. “You know that, right?”

I nodded. “But you can still work hard to prove it.”

“I will.” She kissed me again. “But finish dancing with me first.”

We spun, the music just barely drifting up to the second-floor balcony where we danced, the cold and snow seeping through to our bones, but she was smiling so much, I wasn’t about to stop whatever she wanted.

She laid her head on my chest, holding me close.

I loved it when she did that. All the time I spent thinking she didn’t need me, and now I knew she did.

She didn’t hold me. She held on to me.

We stared out at the forest, most of the trees bare of leaves, and the Bell Tower’s lantern visible through the branches.

“Where is her grave?” Emmy asked.

I didn’t have to ask who she was talking about, the eternal flame for Reverie Cross flickering in the belfry in the distance.

It was strange that she’d waited so long to ask that question, but no stranger that no one else ever had.

When I didn’t answer, she asked, “Did your grandfather love her?”

I tightened my arms around her. “I’ve never asked him.”

It was a subject of which I was eternally curious, but I could never bring it up with him. Maybe I’d be disappointed if the answers were more boring than my imagination.

Maybe I was afraid the answers would change how I loved him.