Page 80 of Claimed By the Boss
She smiles and turns to leave, already talking about packing lists and whether we’ll need to buy our son another pair of boots since he keeps outgrowing them as fast as she can buy them. I watch her go, the sway of her hips, the glow in her expression, the way she hums softly under her breath as she disappears down the hall.
The office falls quiet again, but I don’t mind the silence. I turn in my chair and look at the photos framed on the corner of my desk. One is of us on our wedding day. It wasn’t the spectacle people expected from a man like me. It was intimate. The room was filled with only those who mattered.
Alek stood beside me as best man, his usual sharp humor replaced with something more solemn. Becca, radiant as maidof honor, held our son in her arms through the entire ceremony, rocking him gently as we spoke our vows. Damien Jr., only a few months old, fussed once, then fell asleep against her shoulder, as if even he understood what the day meant.
The photographer caught Lyra laughing at something I whispered to her, her veil caught in the light, her eyes bright. She was so beautiful that day I could hardly breathe, and yet she’s more beautiful now.
I trace a finger along the edge of the photo, thinking about how far we have come. My son already calls me Papa with pride. I have a daughter on the way, and a wife who has given me more joy than I thought possible.
The wordcompletecomes to mind, though I know better than to set limits. If Lyra tells me she wants more children after this one, I’ll give them to her. If she says two is enough, then I’ll be content. The choice is hers, always.
The city sprawls beyond the glass wall of my office, but I feel no pull toward it anymore. For years, every corner of it demanded something from me. Control, violence, or vigilance. Now, it feels smaller, less important. I built my power, I defended it, and now I’ve given it away to Alek, a man I trust with my life. He’s carried it forward for the last three years, and he’s much more suited to the role than I ever was. Lately, he doesn’t talk as much about the business, and I’m grateful for it. I have something better waiting for me at home.
I lean back in my chair, hands folded across my chest, and let myself think about the cabin. Snow still clings to the peaks even in spring, the fire crackling in the stone hearth, Lyra curled against me with her belly warm and round, our son chasing shadows through the trees outside until he comes in smellinglike earth and pine. Our daughter will be born into that world soon, a world cleaner and quieter than the one that nearly stole their mother from us.
For a long time, I believed my life would end in violence. Now I know it will be defined by love.
The next morning, Lyra moves slowly through the penthouse, one hand on her belly, the other brushing over chairs and counters like she’s memorizing them. Junior trails after her, clutching his stuffed wolf and narrating a battle only he can see.
I check the last bag against the list I made last night. Diapers, snacks, chargers, a first aid kit, the wooden cars he refuses to sleep without. Today we’re leaving the city behind and trading it for the quiet of the mountains. I sling the bag over my shoulder and go back for Lyra.
She slips her fingers into mine, and I study her face the way I always do, searching for any sign the pregnancy is wearing her down. She looks tired, but there’s light in her eyes and a curve to her mouth. Junior thumps my leg with his wolf and announces he’s ready. I tell him I believe him.
The ride out of the city feels like unwinding a knot. Buildings give way to fields, then fields to forest. Junior counts bridges until he gets bored, then curls into Lyra’s lap and falls asleep. She strokes his hair with the kind of tenderness that humbles me every time. I keep my hand over the swell of her belly, steady warmth beneath my palm, and watch the road unravel ahead of us.
By the time the cabin comes into view, the sun has climbed higher and the trees tower like sentinels on either side of the gravel drive. The porch wraps three sides of the house, the deckglowing honey-brown in the light. The gates and panels I had installed are in place, latches mounted high so Junior can’t test them. The rails are taller than code requires. Some might call it paranoia. I call it being a father.
I carry Junior up the steps while Lyra follows at her own pace, her palm pressed into her lower back. The lock clicks, and the house exhales cedar and stone, the scent of quiet. I set our boy down and he bolts for the deck doors, flattening his hands against the glass to stare at the birds hopping along the rail.
I pull the lounge chair I had custom-made for Lyra into a patch of sun. She sinks into it with a grateful sigh, the cushions molding around her. Junior presses his nose to the glass again and bounces until I slide the door open. He barrels out, stops short at the railing, and starts pointing at every bird in sight.
“This is perfect,” Lyra says, tilting her head back to catch the sun.
I slide my chair closer, wrap my arms around her shoulders, and kiss the crown of her head. “It certainly is.”
She turns her face up for a kiss, soft and certain, and the years between the first time I held her and now fall into a straight line that finally makes sense.
Junior discovers the box of stones and pinecones I left on the deck last summer. He crouches with the seriousness of an engineer, arranging them in rows only he understands. I sit beside him and he pats the boards like I’ve been granted a seat at his table. We build a road together, and he drives his car down it, making engine sounds.
Lyra watches us with joy. Her bare feet stretch out in the sun, and I raise a brow at her untouched glass of water. She tries to ignore me, but when I keep staring, she sighs and takes a sip.Our daughter kicks beneath her hand, and I cross the deck to kneel beside her. I lay my palm over the small swell and speak to our daughter, describing the trees, the creek, and the way her brother declared himself the fastest driver alive.
Junior eats lunch in bursts, three bites for every lap around the table. He offers his wolf a piece of sandwich, then pretends to be offended when the wolf “refuses.” Lyra laughs until she has to hold her belly, and I can’t stop staring at her, memorizing that sound.
When Junior’s eyelids eventually droop, I carry him to the back room with the moss-colored curtains. I tuck him beneath the quilt my mother kept folded in a trunk for years.
Lyra has dozed off in the lounge chair when I return, one arm over her eyes. I drape a blanket across her and sit nearby.
In the afternoon, we walk the loop through the woods. Junior sprints ahead, kicking leaves into the air until his shoes fill with dirt. Lyra moves more slowly, steady in her steps, her hand tucked into mine when the ground dips unevenly. At the creek, we skip stones and build dams with sticks. Junior demands bigger splashes, and I oblige with rocks that send water spraying high. He cheers, arms thrown up in victory, and I memorize the way his laughter bounces off the trees.
Back at the cabin, shadows stretch across the clearing. I light the grill while Junior stands on his stool, narrating every turn of corn and chicken. He says the smoke means the sky is hungry, and I smile at the way his mind works. Lyra slices tomatoes, pausing every so often to rest her hand on her belly when our daughter stretches.
Afterward, we light the fire pit. Junior roasts marshmallows with fierce concentration, loses the first one in the flames but perfects the second. He presents it to Lyra like a trophy. She declares it the best in history, and he puffs with pride. I make him another and add a square of chocolate.
When the fire burns to coals, we take him inside for bedtime. He picks two books, changes his mind three times, then decides his wolf needs both stories anyway. Lyra and I trade pages until he falls asleep mid-sentence. I tuck him in beneath the quilt, and kiss his head.
The living room is warm when I return, the hearth fire painting the walls gold. Lyra stretches across the couch, and I sit beside her, lifting her feet into my lap. I massage her calves and ankles, careful with the pressure, and she sighs like the weight of the world has eased off her. We talk about baby names again, circling back to the two we’re stuck between. I want something strong, she wants something versatile. We agree we’ll wait until we see her face.
We clean up together in companionable silence, then step onto the deck one last time. The stars spill across the sky, clear and endless. Lyra leans into me, and I wrap my arms around her. I breathe her in, steadied by her familiar scent.
Inside, we dim the lights and climb into bed. We lie facing each other, hands entwined, talking about everything and nothing at all. Our life is safe and perfect, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
The End