Page 95 of Royal Beast
Her words echo in my head like a gunshot.Rose… Rose is yours, Kellan. She’s your daughter. Biologically.
I stare at her, the ground feeling unsteady beneath my feet. My pulse pounds in my ears as I try to make sense of what she’s just said. My daughter. She’s mine.
For a second, I feel frustration stirring. How could she have kept this from me? But when I look at Darcy, really look at her, the anger evaporates. Her shoulders are rigid, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, like she’s bracing for impact. Her bottom lip trembles, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She’s terrified.
“When I found out I was pregnant with Rose,” she begins, her eyes focused somewhere beyond me, “I wanted to tell you. I really did. But I was scared. I mean, terrified.”
“Of me?” I ask, my chest tightening.
She shakes her head quickly. “No, not you. Not entirely. It was everything around you. The night I went to the pub with my father and we met, it was like stepping into another world. It was intriguing, but I knew it was dangerous.”
My jaw clenches at the memory of her father’s involvement in our world, the debts, the schemes.
“You were charming,” she admits, her lips curving in the faintest smile. “And kind in a way I didn’t expect. But that world you were part of… it scared me.”
Her voice falters, and she takes a deep breath before continuing. “After I found out I was pregnant, I saw something. I was walking by the Brannagan pub, hoping to work up the courage to talk to you. And then I saw you with a group of men,arguing. One of them pulled a knife, and before I even knew what was happening, you had him on the ground.”
I wince, the memory surfacing. I remember the incident—it was business, nothing more—but through her eyes, I can imagine how it looked.
“I told myself it wasn’t my place to judge,” she continues. “But when I felt Rose kicking for the first time, I realized I couldn’t bring her into that world. I couldn’t take the risk.”
Her voice grows quieter, more strained. “But then she started asking questions. About you. About why she didn’t have a dad when other kids did. I didn’t know what to say to her, so I just… made things up. And every time I did, I hated myself a little more for keeping you in the dark.”
“Darcy…” I begin, but she holds up a hand.
“Let me finish,” she pleads. “The truth is, I was selfish. I was trying to protect her, but I was also trying to protect myself. I didn’t want to face the possibility that I might have been wrong about you.”
Her voice cracks, and she finally sits down, her hands trembling as they rest in her lap. “But I was wrong, Kellan. I see that now. Watching you with her today, seeing how far you’re willing to go for her safety—it’s everything I ever wanted for her. And I hate that I waited so long to give you the chance to be that for her.”
“Darcy,” I say, my voice calm but firm, my hands reaching for her shoulders. She stiffens at first, but I keep my touch gentle. “Listen to me. I’m not upset. Not anymore.”
“You’re not?” she asks, her voice a whisper of disbelief.
I shake my head, letting out a breath. “No, I’m not. The old me… yeah, I might’ve reacted badly back then. I might’ve stormed off, shouted, blamed you for keeping this from me. But now…”
Now I know better.
The memory comes rushing back, clearer than it’s been in years.
It was a busy night at the pub. I was there doing some business, running numbers for an expansion to our car part import “business”, and that’s when I saw her.
Darcy walked in behind her father, who was already blustering about luck and bets and connections to anyone who’d listen. I barely noticed him. All I could see was her—those dark curls falling over her shoulders, her blue eyes darting around the pub like she wasn’t sure she wanted to be there.
I wasn’t sure what compelled me, but I crossed the room, offering her a drink before she’d even sat down. Her father rolled his eyes, but Darcy smiled—a soft, hesitant thing that lit something inside me.
“You always approach strangers like this?” she asked, one brow arching.
“Only the ones I can’t stop staring at,” I said, surprising even myself with my honesty.
Her laugh was low and warm, and it hooked me instantly.
We talked for hours, long after her father had wandered off to the bar to join some of his old drinking buddies. We talked about music, her love for sketching, my half-hearted attempts at cooking. She teased me about my terrible taste in whiskey, and I teased her right back about her choice of sugary cocktails.
By the time the pub closed, I couldn’t let her go. I invited her to my place—a smaller apartment back then, nothing fancy. To my surprise, she agreed.
We spent the night talking, laughing, and eventually, more. The next morning, she was gone before I woke up. There was no note, no goodbye, just the lingering scent of her perfume on my pillow.
I told myself it didn’t matter. That it was a one-time thing. But when I realized how often she was on my mind and howjust the thought of her made my chest ache, I knew I was smitten.
