Page 88 of The Cruel Heir
Tears streamed down my face. “She’s… she’s real.”
Sterling’s voice cracked. “She’s yours.”
I let out a broken laugh.“Ours.”
He fell to his knees beside the bed, his head resting on my thigh, his hand fisting in the blanket. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I didn’t exactly volunteer.”
His shoulders shook once. Twice. A sob or a laugh, I couldn’t tell. “They said we might lose both of you.”
“But you didn’t.”
His eyes lifted. They were pure ice. “Because I refused.”
He cupped my cheek, his thumb trembling, as it brushed away my tears. “You’re not allowed to leave me. You understand? I decide when this ends.”
I swallowed hard. “And if I say I’m not yours anymore?”
His mouth twisted, like the words wounded him. “Then I’ll become someone else, until you change your mind.”
“Sterling-”
“Shh.” He kissed my knuckles, each one tender, reverent. “You lived. That’s all that matters.”
But I knew the truth. His blood was on the floor of the Kingsley Art Gallery. He’d taken a bullet. And then he’d carried me through fire.
He saved us both.
And in that moment, I let myself love him back.
Not because he earned it.
But because he was mine.
We had survived. We were alive.
And our daughter was here.
But I wasn’t okay. Not really. My scar tugged every time I moved. My back ached. Sometimes I cried without reason. People acted like surviving was enough. But every shadow made me flinch. Every knock at the door made my body lock up, like it remembered the gunshots.
Three weeks later,we were home. Or something like it.
The NICU had discharged our daughter after twelve grueling days. I left with stitches that still ached when I twisted wrong. Sterling, with bandages, and a warning about overexertion.
But somehow, we survived.
The recovery had been slow, but I was finally home, wrapped in the comfort of our bed, our daughter nestled against me as I fed her.
The moment felt soft, intimate, peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaos we had left behind.
The door creaked open, and I looked up to find Sterling standing in the doorway, his body tense, his gaze locked onto me.
Or rather, my breasts.
My body still hurt. I bled when I moved wrong. But I was home, and she was alive, and for the first time in weeks, no one was trying to rip power out of my hands. I didn’t know what tomorrow would look like, but today? I was his, because I chose it. Not because I owed it.
Heat rose to my cheeks, as I realized what he was looking at. I was bare, exposed, my baby latched onto me as she fed.
