Page 68 of Ruthless Claim

I slip out of the room before I actually start crying.

I will not cry in front of my brother, not today.

Today is his.

I close the door softly behind me.

The hallway is empty.

The hospital is deep in its nighttime quiet.

I stand there with my back to the door and my hand still over my mouth and I let myself feel it for a moment—all of it, the relief and the love and the ache and the realization that I can’t take back now that I’ve thought it.

“Hey.”

I jump. Cillian is by me, two Styrofoam cups in hand, coming from the direction of the vending machines.

He looks at my face but doesn’t ask if I’m okay, because he can see that I’m not okay.

He just tilts his head toward the cafeteria.

I follow him.

The cafeteria at four in the morning is just us.

The smell of bad coffee and antiseptics is still strong in here, but I don’t even care at this moment.

He sets a cup in front of me and sits across from me.

I stare blankly at the Styrofoam and I don’t say anything for a moment. Neither does he.

“She’s beautiful,” I say, eventually, my voice hoarse. “Seraphina. She’s the most beautiful, angelic baby and she’s clearly unhappy about being outside of her mother’s womb.”

A small smile crosses Cillian’s mouth. “Smart kid,” he says.

“I’ve never seen a newborn scowl before, but I swear Seraphina was.” I take a sip and fight a gag.

God, it’s terrible.

But it’s also exactly what I needed. “Emma asked me to be her godmother. She decided to spring that little fun fact on me.”

His blue eyes soften. “That sounds like Emma. She always liked surprising people.”

“She does.” I look at the cup, feeling tears slide down my face. I wipe them away roughly.

Cillian studies me. “You know it’s okay to cry. Your niece being born is a huge, emotional occasion.”

“I’m not crying,” I shoot back, mortified he’s caught me. “I just have something in my eye.”

“Sure,” he says neutrally, which means he doesn’t believe me.

We sit in the quiet. I am so tired that the edges of things have gone slightly unclear, but I am also, underneath it, full—full of the night, full of Emma and Leo and Seraphina.

I’m full of something I haven’t had a word for that feels like it might be hope.

The question comes out before I’ve decided to ask it, the way things come out when you’ve been awake so long that the editor in your head has gone to sleep.

“Do you ever think about having children?”