Page 17 of Kylan

See, that’s the thing. I prided myself on taking care of my boys. Marek, first and foremost, always. But then Kylan had come into our lives. What was supposed to be a fun interlude had become a regular thing, then a permanent thing.

An important thing.

I was their provider, their protector.

I was their daddy.

They were mine.

Mine to look after, mine to care for, mine to keep safe.

Mine to keep.

When we finally turned onto Oxford Street, I spoke into the phone. “Okay, Kylan, we’re almost there. Come downstairs. We’ll just have to pull up.”

“Okay,” he replied with a sniffle.

“I’m hanging up now,” I said. “See you soon.”

“’Kay.”

I ended the call and slid Marek’s phone into the centre console. “He’s really upset,” I said. “Crying and sobbing. I couldn’t make out what he was saying.”

Marek’s knuckles on the steering wheel went white, and he glanced between me and the road. His eyes were full of concern as well, and I loved that my husband’s emotions mirrored my own. “Is he hurt?”

“I don’t know.”

Marek let out a low measured breath before he pulled up, earning a blare of a horn from the car behind us. I got out of the car, gave that arsehole driver a glarethat made him school his features as he merged into traffic and kept driving.

Just as I opened the back door, Kylan came around the corner, his eyes blotchy and nose red, and his face crumpled when he saw me.

It felt as if I’d been struck with a hot iron through my heart.

I hurried him into the backseat and, surprising myself, followed him in. Unable to bear it another second, I pulled him straight into my lap and held him as he cried.

“My sweet boy,” I murmured.

He buried his face into my neck and clung to me. “Daddy.”

Marek’s eyes in the rear-vision mirror met mine and I frowned at him. Something was definitely wrong.

He didn’t seem to have any outwardly visible or physical wounds, but he was very clearly in some kind of pain.

I rubbed Kylan’s back and rocked him, soothing him while he cried. “It’s okay, baby boy,” I whispered. “Your daddies are here now.”

Marek smiled at me in the rear-vision mirror.

Kylan sobbed, then tried to calm himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, over and over. “I never meant to be a problem.”

“You’re no problem,” I murmured.

“You’re both so good to me, and I just...” He began to cry again, and I realised that talking in the car was pointless. He needed nothing but comfort and reassurance now. Talking could wait.

“Shh,” I said, kissing the top of his head. “You can tell us later. Just let daddy hold you.”

He snuggled in, fisting my shirt. “Thank you, daddy. Thank you so much.”

He’d stopped crying by the time we got home. I helped him inside, and when Marek had offered his embrace on the sofa, Kylan climbed into his lap much like he’d been in mine in the car. Curled into the smallest ball possible, his head on Marek’s neck.

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