Page 133 of Desperate Games

Andy’s breath catches behind me, and when I glance at her, she’s crying again. Hormones, sure. But also love.

So much love.

I watch, throat thick, as Callie leans down to whisper to Andrew, her curls brushing his cheek.

“You can play with all my toys,” she says, voice hushed, “except my tiara.”

Andy chuckles wetly, wiping her eyes, and murmurs, “She’s going to have them both wrapped around her finger, isn’t she?”

“Yep,” I say, bending down to kiss her mouth. “Just like she has us.”

Her smile is luminous, her face glowing despite the exhaustion, despite everything we’ve been through.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” she whispers.

“Good,” I murmur back against her lips, letting the truth of it settle deep. “Because you’re stuck with us, Mrs. Falco.”

And in that moment—with my wife, my children, and my family safe and warm around me—I know there’s nowhere else on this earth I’ll ever want to be.

Chapter Forty-Five-Andrea

It feels like the whole world has narrowed down to this room.

Just me. Remy. Our twins nestled in their little bassinets.

And Callie, curled up on the bed beside me, her little body pressed to my side while she hums some nonsense tune and strokes Elena’s tiny socked foot.

It’s quiet, soft, peaceful. A cocoon I don’t want to leave.

I glance up at Remy, who’s stretched out at the edge of the mattress, big body somehow relaxed and on guard at the same time, watching all of us like we’re his most precious treasure.

And maybe we are. The thought warms me from the inside out.

A knock at the door breaks the spell. My mother-in-law.

“Time for you to shower, sweetheart. I’ll take the babies.”

Her smile is gentle but firm, and soon enough she’s whisking both bassinets into the nursery, Callie trotting after her with the solemn promise to “watch my babies.”

Which leaves me with Remy.

My body aches in ways I never imagined. Stretched. Raw. Changed.

And I know I need the shower, but when Remy offers to help me in and out, nerves twist in my gut.

“Remy,” I murmur, one hand tugging at the hem of my maternity gown. “Aren’t you put off? By my—” I gesture vaguely at myself, at the belly that still feels swollen and soft and foreign. “By this?”

For a heartbeat, he goes utterly still. Then his jaw flexes, his eyes flash, and suddenly his big hand cups my neck, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.

“No,” he growls, voice low, dangerous, reverent all at once. “I love your body more now than ever. Your body grew our children. It brought them into this world. It welcomes me whenever I touch you.”

His grip tightens, just enough to remind me who I belong to.

“This body is a temple. A miracle. And I am crazy about every inch of it. This body, Andy? It’s mine.”

Heat rushes through me. Tears sting my eyes. And for the first time since delivery, I believe him.

Later, dressed in soft leggings and a sweater that actually fits, I walk down to the living room at his side.