Page 135 of Darcy
“Mom?” Freya’s voice echoes down the hall, and I quickly finish typing the final line of command code before shutting the lid of my laptop.
The TV screen mounted on the wall of my office displays the live cam footage of my target’s office in Dubai erupting in flames, but I manage to switch it off before my beautiful daughter pokes her head through my door. Her mismatched eyes—a carbon copy of Prophet’s—blink innocently at me, despite both of us knowing she’s not supposed to come in here when I’m working.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, confused. “You were supposed to be getting ready for your slumber party with Daddy S.”
“He got distracted by Sophie.” Freya sighs in the over dramatic way she does. “Can you help me find my lombax pyjamas? Pleaseeeeee?”
I huff under my breath in amusement. As much as my eldest would like everyone to believe she’s been neglected ever since Sophie was born, she’s got all four of her fathers—and a few of her aunts—wrapped securely around her eight-year-old fingers.
“Freya.” Slate groans, pushing open the door. “Princesa, you know your mom’s working.”
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “I’ve mostly finished.”
I tap my phone on, then swipe the bot I made into action. It can clear out the mark’s bank accounts and start the process of funnelling the funds into our accounts.
Not that we need the money. The band’s record label is thriving, and I’d never have to work a day in my life if I didn’t love it so much.
Hazardous’s music, now unhindered by Miguel’s bullshit, has only grown better. Though they haven’t toured again since our showdown with the Rosales cartel, their renewed willingness to collaborate with one another has led to the creation of five new albums, all of which proved an instant hit with their fans. Add in the hit new music streaming app I created for them, we could retire tomorrow if we wanted to.
But I don’t.
Apparently, even dropping a building on my legs wasn’t enough to cure me of my fascination with explosions. Thankfully, Man still sends the odd case my way, and advances in robotics in the last few years mean I can deal with them remotely. Seeing things goboomon a screen isn’t anywhere near as satisfying, but my guys aren’t too fond of me going out into the field after the Houston incident.
“Come on.” I stand, locking my phone before holding my hand out to our daughter. “Let’s go find those jammies.”
Instead of taking it, she launches herself at Slate and climbs his body like a koala.
“Oof,” he grunts, but doesn’t complain as she attaches herself to his chest like a barnacle.
“Sophie’s got Arlo playing fairy princess again,” Slate informs me. “I turned my back on Freya for five seconds to be a dragon, and when I turned back, she was gone.”
Sure enough, when we enter the den, Arlo is hunched up on a child’s stool, wearing a too-small pair of fairy wings and patiently letting our youngest put braids in his hair while Dodger smirks and takes photos. One of the girls’ white dress-up wigs has been smooshed over the guitarist’s head, and Sophie’s play makeup is smeared badly around his lips. She’s even attempted to give him a badass scar over his left eye, and my mouth physically hurts from the repressed laughter bubbling in my throat.
“Smile, Princess Arlo,” Dodger croons.
“PrincessGeralt,” Sophie corrects, her precocious little voice half-raised in song. “Honestly, Daddy D, you’re not very good at playing fairy princesses if you can’t even remember his name.”
“You’ll have to get him his own wings,” Arlo encourages, raising one pierced brow in a silent promise of retribution that goes right over our daughter’s head. “Then he’ll understand what it really means to be one.”
Sophie purses her lips in serious thought but abandons her game the moment she spots me.
With a loud exuberant cry, she runs up to me, dragging Arlo with her. “Mommy! Look, I made Daddy into a fairy princess!”
“So you did.” It’s so hard to keep my grin from turning into a full-blown laugh as I meet Arlo’s eyes. My cheeks ache with the effort. “He’s a beautiful princess.”
Freya wiggles until Slate has to put her down, and for a second, I just take in the sight of my two daughters. Both have dark hair, but that’s where the similarities end. Sophie is a girly girl who lives for her favourite purple princess gown, while Freya is a tomboy who’d rather be climbing trees or playing astronauts.
My two girls are oil and water, but I wouldn’t have them any other way.
Arlo winks at me, and I pull my poor, tortured husband in for a kiss. He tastes of cherry lip gloss and coffee, and I savour him for a second before I start to pull away.
“Ewww. No kissing!” Freya groans.
“Is it her bedtime yet?” he mumbles against my lips.
“Are you ready, Freya?” Prophet calls. “We’ve got to be at Auntie—” His words trail off as he pushes through the other door and comes face to face with Arlo in full fairy princess regalia.
“Don’t say a word,” Arlo mutters.
