Page 89 of Ruthless Claim

I pull back enough to see his face. And I see—oh.

There are tears in his eyes, making the blue of them brighter and more open than I’ve ever seen him.

Cillian Brennan looks at me like I’ve just handed him something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

“Are you happy?” I ask, in a small voice.

He barks out a laugh. “I’m fucking scared shitless. I have no idea how to be a father.” A beat. “But yes. God, yes, I’m happy.”

That’s when I start crying.

It’s not elegant or the composed, one-tasteful-tear version of crying that I’ve been known to deploy at appropriate moments.

This is the other kind, the kind that comes from carrying something enormous alone and someone taking half the weight without being asked.

Cillian looks vaguely alarmed that I’m crying, but he rubs soothing circles on my back and I let myself fall apart completely in a way that I haven’t done since Gabriel died.

He doesn’t say anything. He just holds me and lets me cry.

By the time I’ve gotten myself back together enough to be embarrassing rather than catastrophic, his shirt is somewhat damp and I’ve probably ruined my mascara completely.

I pull back and press the backs of my fingers under my eyes, taking a shaky breath.

“I’m not a crier,” I inform him.

“I know,” he says, with such gentle insincerity that it almost makes me laugh.

“This is hormones.”

He nods sagely. “Obviously.”

“I want it noted that I cried first and you almost cried⁠—”

“I didn’t almost cry,” he says, with significantly less conviction.

I laugh in disbelief. “Your eyes were clearly full of tears.”

“That was the light in here,” he tells me, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips. “The light is very harsh in this kitchen, I’ve mentioned it before.”

He’s so full of shit as he’s never said that before.

We are actually having a baby, and something about the way he just lied to me about the crying with complete straight-faced sincerity tips me from tears directly into laughter.

It sounds a little hysterical around the edges, but it’s also genuine.

Cillian’s mouth curves when he hears it and he pulls me back in, his arms around me, his chin on top of my head.

“Okay?” he asks quietly, into my hair.

“I have absolutely no idea,” I tell him honestly. “But yes. I think so.”

The next few days are—strange.

The morning after I tell him, I come out of the bathroom from my ritual six a.m. morning audience with the porcelain throne and find Cillian in the kitchen already. He’s made tea instead of coffee and from my inspectory sniff, it’s ginger tea. I whirl around and gesture to my mug.

“What is this?”

“Ginger tea,” Cillian says, leaning against the counter as he reads something on his phone. “I looked it up. It’s supposed to help with nausea.”