Page 98 of His to Protect

Chapter 22

Declan

“Stop fidgeting,” I muttered, even though her nervousness was making it difficult not to laugh.

Next to me, Trina ran her hands down the sides of her skinny jeans, which were tucked into a pair of dark-brown boots. I’d rolled my eyes earlier, when she came downstairs dressed in jeans and boots and a simple, white, V-neck T-shirt, asking if we could stop by a mall and do some shopping for a better outfit.

Like my parents gave a shit what she wore.

And right now, dressed as simply as she was, she looked beautiful. Her blonde hair was braided down her back, and I knew it was more than just the nerves making her cheeks flush. She was excited at the same time.

And once again, I was fucking grateful that I could give her something to look forward to, something to help erase all the shit we’d gone through in the last twenty-four hours.

But I was even more thankful that she could at least be excited about something, knowing that just yesterday, her husband held a gun to her fucking head. I held her last night as she slept. I hadn’t slept for a single second, because I kept expecting nightmares to wake her and I wanted to be there to comfort her.

Other than the shock from Boomer being hurt, though, she seemed to be doing okay.

Or she was burying it in a deep pit of denial, and it was all going to overflow when she least expected it. Which meant that for the next few days, or weeks, I’d have to keep a closer eye on her.

Not that that was a hardship. She was beautiful and I wanted to look at her every day for the rest of my life. Which, surprisingly, wasn’t at that all scary to think about, considering that up until about six weeks ago, I was dead set on the idea of never getting married again.

Now, not only had I practically forced Trina to move in with me, I couldn’t wait to see my bling decorating her ring finger.

As if knowing what I was thinking, even though she’d think I was crazy for it, she brushed against my side.

I wrapped one arm low on her waist, loving the way she fit so perfectly next to me.

“I can’t help but be nervous,” she said, her voice just above a whisper, and tipped her head back.

I covered her hand with mine and scowled. “Stop thinking about it.”

“I can’t help it.”

“My parents are good people, Trina. They’re kind and they’re open. My dad is going to punch me in the shoulder, my mom is going to roll her eyes and hug me, fussing over the fact that I could have been hurt, and then she’s going to hug you and welcome you to the family.”

“They’re going to investigate what kind of crazy woman you’re connected to.”

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and tugged her closer. “We’ll see.”

My foot began to tap impatiently. I was beginning to grow anxious, not about seeing my parents, but about proving Trina wrong.

When I called my parents last night, just to give them a heads-up once Tyson had reminded me that this disaster would probably hit the media at some point—and soon—after the shock wore off, all my mom said was, “You happy?”

When I told her yes, I could almost see her smile through the phone line before she said they’d be on the soonest flight out.

My eyes scanned the new crowd of people coming down the escalator toward the baggage claim. Being a head taller than everyone else had its perks in situations like this, and it didn’t take me long to spot my mom and dad on the escalator.

His full head of hair seemed grayer than it had just a few months ago, when I saw them last, but his amber eyes were the same. I watched as he placed his arm around my mom’s waist and pulled her to his hip in a way that was similar to how I was holding Trina.

His eyes scanned the area.

Like father, like son.

His chin lifted in acknowledgement when our eyes met, and I got Trina’s attention.

Gesturing with my index finger, I pointed to where my parents were and she rose to her toes. “They’re here.”

She turned to look for them, and I grinned as my dad began pushing his way through a small throng of people without appearing to be rude while doing so.

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