32. Rian
RIAN
I look down at her. She’s sitting on the floor to my left, in the dark of the closet, knees tucked to her chest like she’s trying to fold into herself.
Her cheeks are puffy, hazel eyes rimmed red, her blonde hair tousled angelically, strands stuck to the sweat at her temples.
She must have cried herself to sleep in there.
I thought she was running. I assumed she was hiding from us, from the truth.
But she wasn’t afraid. She was just… comfortable .
That undoes something in me. It softens a layer I didn’t even know was still intact.
She looks beautiful this way. Not the kind of beautiful you fuck. The kind that makes your throat ache. She looks small and vulnerable, like she could be broken with a harsh word, but I know better now. I’ve seen what she holds inside her. What she’s survived. What she’s become.
I’m used to seeing vulnerability as something to crush. I was raised in a world where tenderness was either exploited or erased. Becoming aware of it outside of destruction is slowly, painfully, changing me in ways I didn’t think possible.
And she’s been listening. To all of it. She heard the whole damn conversation—our fumbling attempts to talk about love and fatherhood and futures we don’t know how to build. There’s no pretending now. No way to reel it back in.
For a second, I want to lie. It’s just a reflex.
I want to pretend I didn’t mean it. That I only want to own her.
That I want the boys but not the strings.
That I want her physically but not emotionally.
That it’s easier that way. Cleaner. I don’t want to hand her the chance to reject something I already handed her, heart and all.
But that’s what I would’ve done before. That’s not who I am anymore.
I’m done manipulating. Done hiding from the things I want.
“ Aye ,” I say quietly. “I meant it.”
Kellan says nothing. Declan shifts on the bed like he might speak, but the words never come. It’s just me out here, raw and exposed, holding the weight of the words all of us said. I started it—I opened that door—and I have to carry it.
“I don’t care who the father is,” I say, voice steady but low. “ Is tú atá uaim. ”
“What? What does that mean?”
“I want you.”
“Oh,” she whispers, looking down at her fingers.
“And I want them. I don’t want to keep imagining it anymore. I want to have it. All of it. ”
She blinks, hesitant. “Have what?”
“Parenthood. Being a father. A partner. A family.”
She looks down at her hands. “We could…coparent.”
“Coparent,” I scoff, sinking to the ground in front of her.
I gather her hands in mine. They’re so small, still trembling slightly.
I used to see that smallness as a weakness.
Something I could bend or use. Now I know better.
That small frame holds oceans of rage, courage, grief, and love. And I want every part of it.
“Caroline,” I say, looking her in the eyes, “look at where we are. Look at what we’ve survived.
Look at you . We can do more than coparent.
Maybe I’m not saying it right, but it’s not just the kids I want.
It’s the life. It’s you. I don’t want to split holidays or share updates.
I want mornings. Nights. The messy parts.
The boring parts. The hard parts. I want to hold your hand through all of it. ”
She hesitates, voice low. “Forgive? Not much has changed.”
“We have,” I say. “Maybe not enough. Maybe not fast enough. But we have. And we’re trying.”
She looks up at the ceiling like she’s searching for strength she hasn’t decided to believe in yet. Her tears threaten to spill, shining in the light from the hallway.
I reach out and catch one with my thumb, letting my hand rest against her jaw.
I lean forward and brush her cheek with my lips, gentle as breath.
“I know how this started. I know it was twisted. Violent. Maybe unforgivable. And maybe I’ve got no right to ask, but I’m asking anyway because what we’ve built since…
that is real. From the moment I met you, both times, I felt something human stir in me for the first time in years. ”
“You are human,” she whispers.
“I didn’t feel like it,” I murmur. “Not until you. And maybe that’s selfish, but it’s the truth.
You woke something up in us, Caroline. And you’ll have to get used to that if you want this.
We haven’t had a normal life.” I smile slightly, brushing a hand through her hair and adding, “We haven’t had an insurance adjustor’s life. ”
She laughs softly—wet, breathless, beautiful—and a tear rolls down her cheek. I follow its path with my eyes, and I keep talking before I lose the nerve.
“But you…” I whisper. “I never wanted anything more than I want you. I wanted to tease you…” I murmur, kissing her cheek again, then lower, to her jawline.
“—and protect you…” My lips move to her throat, and she gasps, her breath catching.
“—and save you…” I trail my fingers down her arm, then around her waist, pulling her a little closer, grounding both of us.
“—and own you,” I finish, and this time I kiss her mouth. Not hard. Not forceful. Just a slow, aching press, like I’m begging her to feel what I’m too broken to say out loud.
Our mouths trace each other, finding the rhythm we’ve been denying. My fingers slide through her hair as I press my forehead to hers.
“As long as we live,” I whisper, “we would take care of you.”
She leans into me, her breath warm and shaky. “What would it even look like?”
I press my lips to hers again and let the kiss be my answer.
It’s everything. Fierce and fragile and flawed. We kiss like we’re writing a new language. When I pull back, I look up at my brothers. I want to see them feel it too. I want to hear them echo it. But Declan’s jaw is tense, his arms crossed, the storm behind his eyes threatening to break.
Finally, he says, “I don’t know. None of us are used to sharing anything. We were raised to take, not ask. To burn bridges, not build homes. We’re selfish men.” He sighs and glances at Caroline. “You may have to be patient.”
“But you think we can learn to be a family?” Caroline asks. She’s not just talking about us anymore. She means the boys. She means love.
From across the room, Kellan finally speaks, his voice quiet but certain. “It starts with letting us in. Telling us what you need.”
Caroline blinks hard, then rests her forehead against my chest. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t break. She just breathes, like finally, finally , she isn’t alone.
Her voice is soft. “I need to send the boys away. I need help getting them back to Washington.”
“Done,” I say immediately, holding her tighter. “And you’re sure you want to stay?”
She nods, her voice shaking but steady. “I’m sure,” she says. “Not because I want to die. Because I’m going to end this.”
I stroke her cheek with my fingers, memorizing her. “And when it ends…?” I ask. “Where will we stand?”
She looks up at me, then at Declan, then at Kellan. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I’m scared. And tired. But I know this—” She looks back to me. “I’m not the only one who has to be patient.”
“Maybe we could help you decide, kitten,” I growl into her ear. I pull her down to her back on the ground, hooking my thumbs in her waistband and pulling her shorts down until she’s exposed to me.
She gasps, her legs instinctively pressing together, but I press my hand between her thighs, coaxing them apart, gently but firmly. “We’ll take care of you,” I murmur again, lowering myself until my mouth brushes the inside of her knee. “Let us.”
“Here?” she breathes.
“Right here,” I answer. “You’ve been hiding. Let us show you there’s nothing left to be afraid of.”
Declan moves first. Silent, intense. He drops to his knees beside her, one hand pushing her hair back, the other bracing against the floor as he leans down and kisses her throat. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he holds her head, like she’s breakable, says enough.
Kellan joins from the other side, kneeling and slipping his hand into hers. He kisses her palm, then her cheek, and murmurs something low I can’t hear. Whatever it is, it makes her shiver.
I settle between her legs, dragging my mouth along the seam of her thigh, her hip, my fingers spreading her open until I feel the tremble of her.
Her hands reach for me blindly and land on Declan’s wrist and Kellan’s arm, and the three of us are around her now, shoulders brushing, breath heavy, bodies thrumming with the same need, the same devotion.
I lower my mouth to her and taste her slowly, drawing circles with my tongue, licking her like it’s a vow. She cries out, high and sharp, her back arching as Declan catches her mouth with his own.
I keep going, relentless, patient. I want her undone. I want her to fall apart with all of us around her, holding her, loving her.
“I—Rian—I can’t?—”
“You can,” Kellan whispers, kissing her knuckles. “You don’t have to hold anything back. Scaoil uait. Let go.”
I feel it when it happens. Her whole body tenses, thighs clamping around my head as she comes with a sob, her hands grabbing for anything, everything. Declan, Kellan, me.
She collapses against the floor, panting, blinking up at us in a daze.
“We’re not finished, kitten,” Declan says, already unbuckling his belt.
“Not by a long shot,” I agree, crawling up her body and kissing her softly, tasting every wrinkle in her lips.
We take turns the way we fight—deliberately, bruising, tender in ways we don’t understand. Caroline doesn’t choose a favorite. She gives herself to each of us, and we take her like we’ve been starving.
And when it’s over, when she’s spent and shaking and covered in us, we lie beside her on the floor, her body bracketed by our arms, our warmth, our promise.
“Whatever happens next,” I whisper, stroking her stomach, “we’ll go through it together.”
She doesn’t answer. She just pulls my hand to her chest and holds it there like she’s afraid it’ll disappear.