Page 222 of War

I can tell the instant my family notices him. My sister’s arms tense, and I hear my mother draw in a quick breath.

War comes up next to me, and almost instinctively, my sister releases me, stepping back a little. My mother shrinks back as well. Their earlier friendliness gives way to polite wariness. It takes them both another few seconds to register the small human clinging to him.

I mean, men who hold toddlers always look a pinch less threatening—right?

In War’s case, maybe it’s a very small pinch.

I reach out to him. “This is—” I pause. I still call my horseman by his given name—War—but we’ve bent the rules when interacting with other people. He’s been all sorts of names, none of which really fit him.

“I’m her husband,” he says for me. “War.”

Welp, there went that smooth introduction.

And cue that uncomfortable moment when your family realizes their son-in-law isnot normal.

They stare at him with wide eyes.

“Miriam,” my mom says, followed by a long pause, “is this … ?”A horseman of the apocalypse?

Only, she can’t say it. It’s too improbable. Too ridiculous.

I lick my lips. “He doesn’t do that anymore,” I say.

I’m sure that makes her feelrealreassured.

My mother worries her lower lip, taking War in. “We heard you disappeared,” she says to him. “We didn’t know what had happened.”

Um, surprise. He knocked up your daughter. And now he’s on your doorstep.

War might’ve relinquished his task, but mortality hasn’t made him any less terrifying. Nor has it made the process of trying to explain his existence—and current virtuousness—an easy task. The tattoos on his knuckles still glow crimson, his stature is still as looming and lethal as it ever was, and his eyes still carry the memory of all that violence.

My mother’s eyes go to the baby. Now, they soften again. “Is this … ?”

“This is your grandchild, Maya,” I say.

“You have a daughter,” my mom says, glancing at me, and now her emotion is choking her up once more.

“Do you want to hold her?” I ask.

She nods, looking like she’s about to cry all over again.

I glance at my husband. War hesitates, his eyes dropping to our daughter. He takes protectiveness to a whole new level with his daughter. To be fair, Maya looks equally unenthusiastic about leaving his arms. But eventually, he hands our daughter over.

My mom takes my daughter in her arms and stares down at her little, brooding face. A tear slips down my mother’s cheek, followed by another. She’s trembling, and I use the moment to put my arm around her. A moment later, my sister joins us.

We’re all reunited and crying like children.

My mother clears her throat and glances at me and War again. “Where are my manners? Come in, both of you. Would either of you like some coffee?”

I nod, caught between happiness and this painful ache in my chest. “That would be wonderful.”

Lia retreats back into the house, heading for what I imagine is the kitchen. Tentatively, I begin to follow her. Looking over my shoulder, I see War handily removing our daughter from my mom’s arms.

My mother grasps War’s forearm and squeezes. “Welcome to the family, my son.”

He gives her one of his unreadable looks, then nods, his eyes looking a little conflicted. War’s never known what it means to have a mother … now he might.

My heart is squeezing, squeezing.