Page 14 of Lethal Devotion
"I need his car seat," she says, stopping short of the passenger door.
"His what?"
She gives me a look that suggests I'm an idiot. "His car seat. He can't ride in the car without it. It's not safe, and it's illegal."
Of course. Because children require special equipment, special considerations that I’ve never had to think about before. Another reminder of how unprepared I am for this situation.
"Where is it?" I ask, glancing around the parking lot. I told Konstantin within the hour. We need to get moving, not least of which because every moment we’re here, we’re in danger.
"In my car." She points to a beat-up Honda Civic parked a few spaces away. The thing is rusted to shit, with fading paint and a missing hubcap.
“Does that thing run?” I look at it dubiously, and she glares at me.
“Actually, right now it doesn’t. Busted battery. I had to take the bus to work tonight. But it doesn’t need to run, right?” she asks, her tone colored with exasperation. “You’re taking us back to theestate. I just need the car seat.”
For a terrifying moment, I think she’s going to ask me to hold Adam while she gets it out. But instead, she fumbles with her keys, unlocking the car as she gently bounces the boy against her chest with one arm, and gets the door open to reveal a complex-looking contraption strapped into the seat. I feel sure that she’s not going to be able to get it out while holding a toddler, and I step forward, still scanning the parking lot as I do.
"I'll get it," I say, but she's already leaning past me, working at some kind of release mechanism.
"It's tricky," she mutters, pressing buttons and pulling at straps. "You have to do it in the right order or it won't—there."
The car seat comes free with a soft click, and she straightens up, holding the bulky thing with one hand while balancing Adam and the backpack with the other. She's stronger than she looks, but I can see the strain in her posture.
I can also tell that she does this alone often. That she’s used to managing all this on her own. Something in my chest tightens at the thought. I want to find whoever abandoned this woman, and break his fingers one by one until he explains why Sienna is all on her own with a child.
The feeling alarms me. I’m a violent, brutal man, but not a protectiveone. I’ve never had anyonetoprotect. It makes me feel off-balance, unsettled, and I don’t like it.
"Give me that." I reach for the car seat.
"I can handle it?—"
"Give it to me."
There’s a momentary standoff as Sienna hesitates, then reluctantly hands the car seat over. The thing weighs more than I expected, all padding and plastic and mechanical bits that I don't begin to understand. How something as simple as transporting a child requires this much engineering is beyond me.
Back at the Mercedes, Sienna opens the rear door as I unlock it and starts examining the back seat with a critical eye. "Okay, it should fit," she murmurs as she climbs into the car, still balancing Adam against her chest, and she motions for me to hand her the car seat. What follows is ten minutes of the most frustrating experience I've had since learning to disassemble and reassemble a gun blindfolded.
"No, that strap goes under," Sienna says, her voice muffled as she leans down. "And you have to push down while you tighten it. It’s tricky…"
I try to follow her instructions, but the straps seem to have a mind of their own, twisting and catching on everything. The car seat rocks when I try to secure it, clearly not properly installed. I let out a grunt of frustration, aware that every second we spend dealing with this nonsensical contraption is one that I’m not paying as much attention as I should to the dangers around us.
"Here, let me—" Sienna tries to reach around me, and looks up. Suddenly, her face is very close to mine, and I can smell her shampoo as her hair falls forward, something light and floral that cuts through the lingering scent of leather and gunpowder that follows me everywhere.
"I've got it," I growl, but the strap I'm pulling on seems to be making things worse instead of better.
"You're doing it wrong." Her hand covers mine on the strap, her fingers warm against my skin. "Pull this one first, then push down on the base."
I follow her guidance, and somehow the car seat finally clicks into place. She gives it a firm shake, testing the installation, and nods in satisfaction.
"Good. It's secure." She settles Adam into the seat with practiced efficiency just as he starts to squirm and let out a sound of protest, and she runs a gentle hand over his hair as she starts to buckle him in. In that moment, I can see that I’m completely forgotten, all of her attention on her child as she tries to soothe him.
"Comfortable, sweetheart?" she asks, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.
Adam slides down as far as he can in the car seat, looking around the car with sleepy apprehension. “Going on a trip, Mama?”
“We are, honey.” She digs something out of the backpack—a well-loved elephant that she tucks in next to his elbow. “We’re going to go stay somewhere new for a little while.”
He brightens a little at that. “Are there gonna be other kids to play with?”
