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Lucian
Seven years ago …
Hunched over paperwork strewn across my desk, I cup my face in my hands, mentally trying to block out the screams of my month-old son, Roark, two rooms down. The minutes of the last investors’ meeting are my only prep for the report I’m supposed to present to my father later today, and I’m suddenly wishing I’d made the drive to Gloucester, for the peace and quiet of my office there.
The high-pitched squeal is more than I can take, and I slam my pen onto the desk and push up from my chair. Whatever the hell na
“A
A minute later, she still hasn’t appeared, or answered me.
“A
Still nothing but the incessant wailing from his nursery that, I have no doubt, was intentionally set up in the same hallway, just to piss me off.
I storm down the corridor to the door where the screaming is loudest, and slam through. “A
Instead of the na
No sign of the na
At first, I don’t think my voice can reach her over the sound of Roark’s crying, but Amelia lifts her eyes to mine. How much she’s changed over the last few weeks. The bright young girl, once vibrant and witty, now wears the dark circles of depression and misery. Something I refuse to take credit for. “She didn’t come in today. Had some … errand to run.” Every word arrives as if she’s out of breath and weak, hardly audible over those wretched screams.
“Are you going to quiet him, or let him scream all hours of the day and night? I have an important meeting I’m trying to prepare for.”
Her gaze slides toward the cradle, where Roark still hasn’t quieted. Tears fill her eyes as she shakes her head, her bottom lip quivering. “I can’t.”
My mother says it’s post-partum depression, but I can’t stand it, just the same. She does nothing for him. Won’t even hold him. Why she didn’t arrange to have a backup na
A screech echoes through the nursery, and Roark almost sounds in pain, his wail shaky and tormented.
Groaning with frustration, I cross the room to his cradle, and find him lying in a pile of blankets, wearing nothing but a diaper. His naked body is red from crying, his face scrunched with agony, as he trembles like he’s been hit with a stun gun.
I’ve not held him once since his birth, mostly because I’m not experienced in holding babies and they tend to make me uncomfortable. But also because a part of me can’t help but think this child was the scheming of both my mother and Amelia. A means of roping me into a relationship with a woman I didn’t love.
Rubbing my hand over my head, I screw my eyes closed, the sound of his screams i
Jesus.
I pull the blanket up around him, covering his hand that remains propped beneath it, and with his shivering, the blanket covers his face. Seconds tick by as I stare down, his cries hysterical now, his small form squirming beneath the blanket. For the briefest moment, I wonder if it’s better to spare this child from a life of parents who didn’t want him. To let him suffocate now, rather than watch him suffer a lifetime of slow and painful asphyxiation.
Instead, I tuck the blanket under his chin, and exhale a breath as I slide my hands beneath his little body. I lift him from the cradle, and the hysterics heighten midair, until I pull him to my chest. As I awkwardly try to wrap him up, he slips a little from my grasp, and a gasp flies out of me before I catch him. Fucking hell. My heart slams against my chest at the near miss, and I curl him into the crook of my arm.
His cries die down to whimpers.
Whimpers die down to thumb sucking.
And then his eyes meet mine.
Blue, like Amelia’s, and brimming with curiosity as he stares up at me, going to town on his tiny thumb. What hits me most of all, though, is the trust swirling in them. Does he even know who I am to him? Is that why he stopped crying?
I scan my gaze over the length of him, noticing his miniature feet sticking out of the blanket, and I cover them one-handedly.
When my gaze returns to his, his eyes are still riveted, like the kid can’t get enough of staring at me.
“How dare you look me in the eye like that,” I say, watching the bold little shit stop sucking his thumb for a second, as if he’s trying to study my voice instead. “Do you know who I am?” Only pausing a second, I lift him a little higher. “I’m your father. And you’re really fucking up my concentration with all that crying.”
The awe sketched across his face as he continues to stare up at me leaves a strange feeling in my chest. I can’t explain it. It isn’t pain, or anger. Bitterness, or apathy.
Warm tingles crawl beneath my skin and congregate inside my chest. Everything around me seems to slow down, like I’m floating underwater, just me and him. There’s the apprehension of not having taken in enough breath, but at the same time … contentment. Perhaps even slight euphoria.
My son.
The words echo inside my head while I watch his eyes grow heavy with sleep. A glance back at Amelia shows her sitting in her chair, staring off once more, as if oblivious to us.
When I turn my attention back on Roark, his eyes are closed, his small mouth gaping, chest rising and falling with sleep. The red tone fades to baby white skin, and I dip my head just enough to breathe in the scent of him.
I don’t take my eyes off Roark’s sleeping face as I exit the nursery and make my way back down to my office. Rounding the desk of scattered papers, I take my seat on the leather chair and lay Roark against my chest, where my shirt is partially unbuttoned. Kicking my feet up on the desk, I hold him against me, focusing on the breaths that flutter in and out of him.
My son. Each time the words chime in my head, a rush of tingles follows.
This small, trusting little bundle is mine. Truly mine. A
I think about him lying in that crib moments ago, screaming and cold, with his mother only a few feet away, and my lip peels back in disgust. Petting his back, I take in his tiny size against my chest. So small and fragile, and suddenly, I want to protect him.
My son.
For the first time, I understand my father’s words all those years ago.
And I would kill for what’s mine.