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Finally, I gather my courage. The question has been burning inside me for weeks.
"Ronnie," I say softly, keeping my eyes on the dreelk leaves I'm carefully trimming. "Why didn't you tell me about Millie?"
Her hands freeze mid-motion. I can feel tension radiating from her body, see the slight rise of her shoulders as she inhales sharply. I hurry to continue before she can retreat behind her walls.
"I'm not blaming you," I clarify, setting down the shears and turning to face her fully. "Clearly, you did everything right. Our daughter is..." I search for words adequate to describe the miracle that is Millie. "She's wonderful. Perfect. You've given her an incredible life here."
Ronnie's expression softens marginally, the moonlight catching in her gray eyes as she finally meets my gaze. Something vulnerable flickers there before she looks away, back to the plants.
"I was afraid," she admits, her voice barely audible. "Afraid you'd want to take her. And what can a human do to stop a xaphan from taking what they want?"
Her words strike me like a physical blow. I sit back on my heels, wings drawing tight against my spine in shock. "You thought I would—" I struggle to keep my voice level. "Ronnie, I know we were never serious, but did you really think I'm the type of man who would tear a child from her mother?"
She yanks a weed from the soil with unnecessary force. "What was I supposed to think? I didn't know what kind of man you were beyond getting into my bed."
The words sting, but I can't deny their truth. Our relationship had been defined by those heated encounters, by the intensity we found in each other's bodies while keeping our hearts carefully guarded.
"You're a good father," she continues, her tone softening slightly. "Better than I expected. But how long do you plan on staying around? You have a life elsewhere. Responsibilities. Connections."
"I don't plan on going anywhere." The words emerge from somewhere deep inside me, a truth I hadn't fully acknowledged until this moment. "This is where I want to be."
She swallows hard, her throat working as she absorbs my words. After a long moment, she nods, just once, before returning to her task with renewed focus.
We continue working in silence, but it's different now—weighted with unspoken possibilities. I find myself replaying her words, examining every interaction we've ever had through this new lens of understanding.
Had she really believed I would be so callous? So cruel? And why does that assumption hurt so much?
The realization hits me with startling clarity: I've always had feelings for her. From that first encounter in her shop, when she stood fearless and defiant before me. Through every monthly visit, every heated night, every morning I left before sunrise—part of me had already begun to belong to her.
Had she truly not seen it? Or had I hidden it so well that even I hadn't recognized its depth until now, kneeling beside her in this moonlit garden with our daughter sleeping peacefully inside?
I glance at Ronnie's profile, struck by how the silver light traces the determined line of her jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between her brows. She's beautiful in her focus, in her quiet strength.
And I'm terrified by how much I suddenly want her to see me—not just as Millie's father or as the xaphan who visits her bed, but as a man who might be worthy of her trust.
22
RONNIE
I've never been good at gatherings. Give me solitude and hard work over forced conversation any day. But watching Harmony bustle around my kitchen like she belongs here—which, in many ways, she does—settles something in my chest. She's arranging wildflowers in a chipped ceramic vase while Adellum hangs back, those massive gray wings carefully folded against his powerful frame as he helps Brooke carry in bread still warm from their oven.
"You didn't have to bring anything," I mutter for the third time, stirring the thick stew that bubbles on my cooking hearth.
Harmony's laugh filters through the room, light and free. "And you didn't have to invite us, but here we are." She tucks a wayward curl behind my ear with familiar ease. "The bread is Adellum's doing. You know how he gets when he's anxious about something."
"I'm not anxious," Adellum protests, setting the loaf down. "I'm appropriately concerned about whether this stew will be enough for seven people, three of whom have wings."
I roll my eyes. "There's enough food to feed half the village."
"Only if half the village doesn't include my mate," Harmony teases. "Or have you forgotten how much he eats?"
The warmth of their banter wraps around me, even as I fight the instinct to withdraw. This easygoing domesticity is still foreign territory—this chosen family that somehow claimed me despite my best efforts to keep everyone at arm's length.
A sharp knock at the door sends a jolt through my body.
"I'll get it!" Millie shrieks, her tiny feet pattering across the wooden floorboards as she races to the entrance. I've barely opened my mouth to caution her about opening doors when I hear the telltale creak of hinges.
"Papa!" Her delighted squeal fills the house.