Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

D eclan

"Nothing," she shrugs. "Nothing happened after years of trying. I was never on birth control. We were looking forward to kids. But it never happened. His girlfriend was pregnant before the divorce was final."

It doesn't feel right. Miranda would make an amazing mother. A little girl with her big eyes and smart mouth…

"What about you? Were you happy or sad you didn't have a child with your wife?" Her smile is forced. There's no light in her eyes. My answer is important to her.

"I was extremely grateful there was no child, and I still am. The idea of kids is nice, but in practice, they're demanding and loud, and they would keep me from enjoying their mother for a minimum of three months. I've also heard too many stories of sex never being the same after?— "

"Because a woman's body changes? That's disgusting. She grew a fucking baby?—"

"It's not about her body. It's about her mind. They become obsessed with the baby, and it becomes more important than him or even her. How their breasts are only to feed. A mate of mine said his wife told him mothers don't have sex because it's dirty." I shake my head, focusing on the negatives.

Refusing to think of the only reason why I considered marriage to Brenna was because of the promise of children. This isn't about me. It's about assuring Miranda there are men out there who don't give a shit if she can't give them kids or not.

"Oh. I've heard a lot of that, too. I don't know. There's always going to be changes to a relationship. But I can see the good and the bad. I love sleeping in and reading the day away on my days off." She might say the words, yet there's still a trace of wistfulness in them.

"Actually, maybe it's a good thing it never happened. It wouldn't just be eighteen years. We would have been in each other's lives until one of us wasn't here anymore. Arguments about where to spend Christmas, then add when our kids had a partner, and those other grandparents got factored in for Christmas and birthdays, all the rest. There would be no escaping the other person."

"Did you ever consider doing the whole fertility thing? The shots and all that?" I'm curious how badly she wants them. Because now a child appeals even more. I've heard horror stories about what it does to a couple's relationship. The whole idea softens my cock at the idea of Miranda stressed and in pain from all of that.

"No, we never made it that far. I think in the back of my mind I already felt things were off. The one time I suggested getting both of us tested, he flipped out on me. After the divorce and finding out his girlfriend was pregnant. I don't know." She shrugs sadly.

"I don't want to go through it all alone. While I understand there are no guarantees, it doesn't feel right or fair to sentence a child to a childhood without another parent. It's why we would always be in each other's life. I wouldn't have cut him out of my life. For our child to not have their father because I didn't want to deal with their father—it's not a good enough reason. And I guess that's my answer. I would love kids, but not enough to go through all of what it would take to have one alone."

Relief allows me to breathe deeply again.

The topic moves to the books in the library and our favorite books until we're both finished.

I confirm she's done before taking both our plates into the kitchen. I rinse off the plates but don't bother trying to fill the dishwasher. Aoife has a painful right hand, and apparently, I don't know how to do it properly.

I curse as I find there's only one piece of tiramisu. It's my favorite dessert, and I'm not willing to give it up. There were supposed to be two. Did Aoife take it home? Or had I not checked the bag when I picked it up? Shit.

I'm back in the dining room. "Darlin', how do you feel about tiramisu for dessert?"

Those hazel eyes glow brightly. "Oh, it's my favorite."

"Are you willing to share the piece? There should have been two. Except I can't find it. It's a big piece—we'll both get enough."

One corner of her sexy as fuck mouth lifts. It goes right to my cock. "I'm willing to share. "

I grab two forks and take them into the dining room with the tiramisu.

"That's a huge piece." She smiles big again.

"What is that grin about?"

Shaking her head, she laughs. "You. I don't know. It's obvious you work out. I thought you'd be one of those people who didn't eat anything but a strict protein diet. With steak yesterday and the veal with broccoli tonight."

I admit. "I have a sweet tooth. My lunch is usually the heaviest of what I eat throughout the day. So dinner usually has to be lighter because I still want cake or whatever delicious thing Aoife has made for the house."

"A man admitting to a sweet tooth." Her wide eyes tease me.

Fuck, my cock aches. Forking off a bite, I offer it to her. She keeps her mouth closed. I don't move the fork or say a word. Finally, she gives in and takes the bite. A small moan comes out of her, and my cock fucking breaks.

"This is the best damn tiramisu in the city. Darlin', I'm the last man to deny myself pleasure. Whether it's chocolate, sugar, or the taste of your skin."

A blush sweeps over her beautiful face down to her chest. She jumps up. "I'm full. Goodnight."

I don't move as she nearly runs out of the room, taking the stairs so fast I pray she doesn't fall. The sound of her bedroom door slamming fills the entire house.

It's a long time before I can bring myself to move.

I climb into bed, almost ready to collapse after spending two hours in my home gym. Every muscle in my body aches. It was the only thing I could think of to keep away from her.

A whimper has me sitting up. I don't even think, and I'm out of my room. I'm glad her door isn't locked. She's still asleep. Having a nightmare.

Fuck. I freeze, unsure of what to do. My name comes out of her, dripping with fear. The only light is through a thin sliver of the moon through the heavy curtains.

Did she think I would hurt her? It's a gut punch. Tears are escaping her. Even though I'm aware I should leave her—I can't take the tears.

My hand is on her shoulder. I give her a small shake. "Miranda, love, it's a dream. Wake up, darlin'."

She gasps. "What?"

"You were having a nightmare. Are you okay?" I trail my hand away.

Her small hand catches mine. "Is that scar on your side from a gunshot .. ?" It's a whisper.

Ah, she didn't think I would hurt her. She was worried I would be hurt.

I'm fucked all to hell that the simple touch of her small hand clutching mine is the most erotic thing I've experienced in my long and filthy life. That it destroys all will within me to open my mouth and answer her question. Because I know it will push her further away from me.

"It is. Isn't it?" She knows the answer. It's a test. I told her I would always be honest with her when I could be .

"It is, love."

"This. It will go away one day, won't it?" It's a plea for me to tell her that one day, she'll be free of this need, this connection so powerful it's in the marrow of our bones.

Keeping my promise to be honest. "I've never felt this before. So I don't know, my love."

I let go of her hand. Then I lift the covers and get into bed with her. Jesus, help me. She fits me perfectly as her head goes down on my chest. Her body so small, soft, and the last thing I want to feel in this world before I leave it.

Her arm wraps around me. One small hand finds the scarred flesh of the bullet wound unerringly. It's as though she wants to wipe it away.

I don't say it happened more than fifteen years ago, that I haven't pulled my piece in more than a year, that no one has pulled a gun on me in more than five years, that I've never killed anyone who didn't deserve it, that the last time I was hurt, it was because I broke a finger from breaking a guy's jaw almost two years ago. None of those things will take away her fear and make it all okay in her eyes.

All I do is hold her. It's almost an hour before she finally slips into sleep. For me, it's almost two hours—unable to give up feeling her against me.

Declan

I wake up to Miranda still in my arms. A flick of my eyes to the clock on the bedside tells me it's a little after six .

I wonder if there's a way to stay in this moment forever. And I understand at last the bargains people are willing to make for eternal life—if it's her, Miranda for forever. Those men weren't the fools I thought they were.

From my room, I hear my phone go off with an alert. Shit. It's going to wake her up. I never thought I was a weak man, but I can't stand the idea of seeing her withdraw from me one more time. This time when she pulls away, I'm going to let her go.

For once in my shite life, I'm going to do the right thing. Because the thought of her hurting in the end… I can't be the one to make her feel pain. I'll leave her be. She finishes the audit, and I let her go the way she's asking me to.

I'm in a foul mood the entire time I dress. I don't dare go into the kitchen and have breakfast. Aoife will know. I'm not up to answering the questions she'll ask me.

When I sit down at my office in the pub, I do it with a heavy heart and no interest in anything. An alert for my email sends me into it. Once I'm done with it, I remember I hadn't finished reading Michael Preston's file. As a parting gift to Miranda, I'm going to kill him.

I freeze as I read through the information on the divorce. The soon-to-be-ex is more than six months pregnant. Although she might be pregnant, it isn't his kid. The divorce was because he found her cheating. So, he decided he wanted a paternity test done on the fetus. When that came back as not his, he had one done on his son, who she was pregnant with when they got married. Turns out the kid isn't his either.

My parents were married for six years before my mother had me. Then as much as she wanted another child, there was no other before she died ten years later. There was no telling why a woman would go years wanting a child to not have one. The problem could have been with Miranda's husband and not her.

Miranda wanted a child, and she wanted me. It was my world she didn't want to live in. Except my world wasn't nearly as bad as she feared.

Fucking television and books didn't know what they were talking about. I had the means to protect her from the worst of it. To walk away from this would mean walking away from Chicago, from everything we both knew, and starting over. Except I would never truly be able to start over. I've done things people could use against me. I would never be able to protect her the way I wanted as a civilian.

And with everything I know of this world, I would never be happy as a civilian. There is too much bad shit going on. It's this or off-grid in the middle of nowhere.

The search brings it up, and I read it before I take it in. Am I really going to do this? Would she forgive me when she finds out—will I have the entire nine months to make her fall in love with me?

Reading the guidelines on the first suggestion that comes up, the best time for a woman to start the medication is on the third day of her period. I read it again and again. Am I too Irish to be seeing that I have two days to get the drug before it's the best time to start, or is it truly a sign?

This woman is my destiny. And whether she likes it or not—I'm hers.

Now, the problem is how to get the medication. There's a doctor we use for knife or gunshot wounds we can't handle ourselves. He also performs abortions for the girls. But I don't want to worry about him encountering Miranda and saying something .

I bring up the contacts in my phone. The name jumps out. Milos Levin is head of the Bratva in the city and the source of coke and guns. I don't know him through the drugs, but he is where I get my guns.

He's quiet for a moment when I tell him what I need and ask if he can get it for me. Or if he knows where I could get it.

"That's not exactly common on the street, Declan. You and your requests. This is right up there with those Berettas you and your people in Ireland wanted. Give me a few hours. I'll call you back."

I'm for shit, not able to focus on a single thing until he calls me back.

"I got it."

Everything in me sags in relief.

We meet at his restaurant, where he has his office. A place where a plate doesn't cost more than twenty bucks—unless caviar was added. I never thought I'd like Russian food, but every time I'm here, I have something different and think about it for weeks before giving in and getting it again.

He has two grocery stores focusing on Russian food, one a luxury place and another for the plebians. It's a cover for bringing in weapons, but they have also made him as rich as his non-legitimate business. I would have thought his office would be out of one of those places, but despite the silk suits in all black he's forever in—he feels no need to flaunt his wealth the way some men in our business do.

I'm small compared to him. He's in the billion-dollar range. The twenty percent of his business I clear in a year is likely what he does in a month or two tops. Yet Milos never remarks upon it. The way the Outfit member we used to buy from did every time I saw his ass. Neither Tony nor Dom handled guns, so they referred him to me.

One thing about the mafia that's barely blinked at is how racist it is. The Irish are no better than blacks to an Italian. Except Tony and Dom weren't, and they had no patience for those who were. Dom was at the last deal I did with his associate and called a halt to the buy. Told his fellow capo to fuck off, and we left. He told me he was hooking me up with Milos. Milos was where his associate got the weapons—it would be cheaper, and I wouldn't have to deal with the bullshit.

At the time, I steered clear of the Bratva, thinking they weren't a whole lot better than the Serbians. Dom shook his head, telling me Milos was far more civilized than that. But if crossed, they were extremely violent and had no problem killing everyone, from a child down to the family dog, to make a point. Meeting Milos, I read that within him—a willingness to order a death without having a single thought after it was taken. We recognized it within each other. In the years since, respect has grown between us.

After we enjoyed lunch, he brought me into his office. He hands over a plastic bag, and I hand him the cash.

"The source said no more than twelve months of treatment is recommended. Apparently, it's linked to ovarian cancer. And after a year, they move onto a different drug or treatment." He shakes his head. "But he was still willing to supply me with sixteen months. In case you need to use it for more kids later. Another tip he provided was that a woman is often most fertile after giving birth. The six months after she delivers would be the best time to try again if you're good with having kids so close together. Although the longer you can give her to recover from all the things pregnancy does to a woman's body—the better for her and the child. "

Another shake of his head. "Good luck with all of this. I had no idea you married. If I did something to not receive an invitation?—"

"No, I'm not married—yet. I'm hoping this will give me the time I need for her to see it's not as dangerous as she fears this world is and give us the shot we deserve."

An eyebrow lifts. "You Irish. You have far more patience when it comes to personal matters. If you want the woman, you take her. If she wants you enough to want to fuck you, then the battle is half won. Keep her, and she'll accept it eventually."

I chuckle at his advice. "That's called Stockholm Syndrome. And when they eventually come out of it, they'll run hard and fast. There's a difference between acceptance and love. It has to be their choice in the end. Otherwise, you'll never truly have them. A woman's heart isn't the easiest to win, but once you have it—it's forever for them unless they find out you betrayed them. My hope is that she won't see this as a betrayal, merely an extension of what we both want, a forever with the other in it."