as I slide my hands beneath his little body. I lift him from the cradle, and the hysterics heighten midair, until I pull him to my chest. As I awkwardly try to wrap him up, he slips a little from my grasp, and a gasp flies out of me before I catch him. Fucking hell. My heart slams against my chest at the near miss, and I curl him into the crook of my arm.
His cries die down to whimpers.
Whimpers die down to thumb sucking.
And then his eyes meet mine.
Blue, like Amelia’s, and brimming with curiosity as he stares up at me, going to town on his tiny thumb. What hits me most of all, though, is the trust swirling in them. Does he even know who I am to him? Is that why he stopped crying?
I scan my gaze over the length of him, noticing his miniature feet sticking out of the blanket, and I cover them one-handedly.
When my gaze returns to his, his eyes are still riveted, like the kid can’t get enough of staring at me.
“How dare you look me in the eye like that,” I say, watching the bold little shit stop sucking his thumb for a second, as if he’s trying to study my voice instead. “Do you know who I am?” Only pausing a second, I lift him a little higher. “I’m your father. And you’re really fucking up my concentration with all that crying.”
The awe sketched across his face as he continues to stare up at me leaves a strange feeling in my chest. I can’t explain it. It isn’t pain, or anger. Bitterness, or apathy.
Warm tingles crawl beneath my skin and congregate inside my chest. Everything around me seems to slow down, like I’m floating underwater, just me and him. There’s the apprehension of not having taken in enough breath, but at the same time … contentment. Perhaps even slight euphoria.
My son.
The words echo inside my head while I watch his eyes grow heavy with sleep. A glance back at Amelia shows her sitting in her chair, staring off once more, as if oblivious to us.
When I turn my attention back on Roark, his eyes are closed, his small mouth gaping, chest rising and falling with sleep. The red tone fades to baby white skin, and I dip my head just enough to breathe in the scent of him.
I don’t take my eyes off Roark’s sleeping face as I exit the nursery and make my way back down to my office. Rounding the desk of scattered papers, I take my seat on the leather chair and lay Roark against my chest, where my shirt is partially unbuttoned. Kicking my feet up on the desk, I hold him against me, focusing on the breaths that flutter in and out of him.
My son. Each time the words chime in my head, a rush of tingles follows.
This small, trusting little bundle is mine. Truly mine. Annoying as hell, but mine. Perhaps the only thing that will ever really belong to me, for as long as I live. The thought of such a thing stirs something inside of me. A sensation pulled from the depths of me, because it’s surely one I’ve never felt before.
I think about him lying in that crib moments ago, screaming and cold, with his mother only a few feet away, and my lip peels back in disgust. Petting his back, I take in his tiny size against my chest. So small and fragile, and suddenly, I want to protect him.
My son.
For the first time, I understand my father’s words all those years ago.
And I would kill for what’s mine.
Chapter 39
Lucian
Present day ...
I lead the group of men through the long and winding tunnels of the catacombs. A cold chill skates over my skin as we pass the sarcophagus I had carved for Amelia, as well as the much smaller one for my son. Even now, years later, after the many times I sat down here alone with my thoughts, an ache still blooms inside my chest at the sight of my son’s memorial.
The tunnels open up into a wide cavern, where tables line the perimeter of an enormous floor medallion made up of black, gray and brown pewabic tiles I had imported from Detroit. The center of the medallion carries the likeness of the moth with its skull on the thorax.
Patrick Boyd is led into the circle of tables, blindfolded as every member in the room once stood. Each of the