Page 32 of Make You Mine

We spend the next few hours like that—talking, dozing, holding hands, holding each other.

Willow makes up stories with her rabbit, Emmett naps on and off in his mother’s arms, and Amerie manages to keep her eyes open long enough to tease me twice and call me a sentimental sap once. I don’t even deny it.

Because I am a sap. For them. For this.

I’d burn the bloody world to ash before I let anyone threaten what we’ve built again.

And as the sun begins to rise behind the gray clouds from outside the hospital window, casting the room in a pale wash of gold, I know that no promotion, no job, no bastard of a boss could ever compare to this.

My family is my home, and thankfully, it’s whole again.

Eight weeks later…

The first thing I hear as I pull into the front drive is Willow’s laughter floating through the open garden gate.

It’s a proper warm day, sun hanging lazy overhead, grass buzzing with the sort of life that only turns up when summer rolls in.

I linger in the car for a moment, one hand on the key, just listening.

She’s out there with Ciara, the new girl she’s befriended from school.

They’re darting around the garden with a bouncy ball, shrieking with joy like it’s the best day they’ve ever had.

For Willow, maybe it is. I reckon it’s for the best that her closest companion these days is someone her own age, not a nanny old enough to drive a car and hide a knife behind her back.

Just the sight of her running free, cheeks flushed and braids swinging, is enough to ease any tension in my shoulders.

I leave them to it and slip inside. The house is pleasantly cool in contrast to the warmth outdoors. It smells faintly of coffee and lemon cleaner—Amerie’s touch, no doubt—and the silence is a comfortable one.

No tension. No lurking dread. Just peace.

Upstairs, I poke my head into Emmett’s nursery.

The lad’s flat out on his back, one hand curled around the corner of his blanket.

Now ten months, he’s taken his first steps lately, getting cheeky with it too, toddling toward trouble faster than we can handle.

But now he’s peaceful, his breaths gentle.

My heart tugs at the sight.

I move on, stopping outside Amerie’s office. Her fingers are clattering away on the keyboard, a confident rhythm that tells me she’s in the zone.

I knock gently. “Guess who?”

There’s a pause, followed by a beat of silence, and then her chair scrapes back. Her footsteps race to the door, and when it swings open, her face lights up with the sort of smile that never fails to undo me.

“You’re home early!” She throws her arms around me.

I wrap her up tight and press a kiss to her lips.

“Keep it in your pants, love,” I tease, smirking. “It’s still daylight hours.”

She shoves at my chest with a laugh. “You play too much! You’re the one ambushing me like this.”

“Couldn’t resist.” I stroll past her into the office, noting the mess of papers, the empty mug, and the blinking cursor still waiting on the screen. “What’s the occasion then? Manuscript behaving?”

“You already know the occasion. Today’s the day. It’s off.”

“Off where?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“Off to the publisher. Officially submitted. It’s done. Finito.”

“Thought as much,” I say, sliding my phone from my pocket. “Which is why I figured now would be the time.”

“The time for what?” she asks warily, eyebrows knitting together in bemusement.

I hold the phone up so she can see. On the screen: digital plane tickets, booked and confirmed.

Her breath catches. “What’s this?”

“We’re going away. All four of us,” I say. “We leave Saturday.”

She freezes, and for a moment, her joy falters. I see it, clear as day. That flicker of panic in her eyes, the ghost of what nearly happened the last time we spoke of going away. Her head fills up with thoughts about that doomed trip to Scotland, and her breaths turn shaky.

I step closer, gently cupping her cheek.

“This isn’t for business,” I murmur. “It’s pleasure. No meetings. No deals. Just sun, sea, and far too much food. You, me, the littlies.”

Her eyes well, but this time it’s with relief. “Really?” she whispers.

“Really,” I say. “Just the family. On Holiday to Greece .”

She throws her arms around me again, burying her face in my neck. “Declan, this is amazing! I’ve always wanted to go!”

“And you deserve it. We’ll celebrate you finishing your manuscript,” I say, holding her tighter. “Hell, and summer. We’ll celebrate that too while we’re at it. Any excuse to do fuck all for two weeks.”

She laughs as we come together again for a kiss.

It’s the perfect way to kick off the summer, after what turned out to be a bloody grim spring.

The past few weeks have been spent patching ourselves back together and quietly getting on with our life, while the police did their digging and the village gossips had their field day.

The ordeal didn’t just end the night Chelsea finally went down—it left its scars we’re doing our best to heal from even now.

This family holiday is part of that. It’s the start of a new season.