Chapter 32 #2
She nods, and I start reading. My voice cracks on the first few words, but I find the rhythm, letting the silly rhymes carry me forward.
She inches closer until her small body presses warm against my ribs, and when her head drops onto my shoulder, I have to stop.
Swallowing feels like sandpaper, and I’m pretty sure my heart is about to flatline.
It’s fine. If I just remain super still, she won’t move.
By the time Hairy Maclary makes it home, she's out cold, her breathing deep and even against my arm.
I close the book carefully, not wanting to disturb her, but she murmurs something and burrows closer.
Hella crosses the room, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. He looks between his bed and my daughter, and something cracks in his expression.
“Stay,” he whispers, so low I almost miss it. “For tonight. She went to sleep with you here, don’t wanna freak her out if she wakes and you’re gone.”
I nod, carefully shifting to lie down without waking her. Hella pulls the blanket over us both, his hand lingering on my shoulder for a moment before he retreats to the chair in the corner.
“You don't have to sit there all night,” I whisper, brushing my lips over her hair and inhaling her scent. It’s a sweeter hint of Hella’s.
The thought makes me smile. Even though he made sure to buy every girly soap, wash, scrub, hair product and other random things he stumbled across, she still uses his soap. You and me both, my love.
“Yeah, I do.” He stretches out, settling in. “Someone's gotta keep watch.”
“Over what?”
“Both of you.” His eyes meet mine across the darkened room. “Sleep, Melissa. I got this.”
And somehow, for the first time in weeks, I believe him.
The paperwork finally arrives on a Tuesday.
Ripper’s contact came through, digging up everything we needed. That she's mine, biologically and legally, and no one can take her away again.
I flip the first manila folder open. Adoption records. Group home placement. And a recent abduction report filed with Oranga Tamariki.
The words leave me in a whisper. “Olivia Masters. Age five.”
Hella taps at the history part. “Adoptive parents died in a car accident. Seemed like real good people, too, Melissa. She was then placed in Future Homes.”
My blood runs cold. “When did they die?”
“Two weeks before we found her.” He pulls out another page. “A week later, security footage shows a man matching Richard Donovan's description enter the group home. Used forged documents claiming to be her father.”
Piece of shit. “Why?” I demand. “Why take her? Why now?”
“Don’t know,” Hella answers, his voice deadly calm. “Could be control. Wanted to watch you build a life, then destroy it by taking the one thing you thought was safe. The baby you gave up to protect.”
Richard's game wasn't about the assault. It was about making me pay for surviving it.
The blank space where her father's name should go feels like an accusation.
“Put 'Unknown.'" I slide the paper toward Hella, who's reading through the new and legitimate documents with a frown.
“Or I could sign it.” He doesn't look up; his tone casual. “Make this official.”
My pen freezes mid-air. “What?”
“Makes sense.” He shrugs, as if he's suggesting we grab pizza for dinner, not alter the course of his life. “She trusts me. If the world sees me as her father, it makes her safer. Gives her a name that means something.”
“Hella—”
“Melissa.” He finally looks at me, and there's something vulnerable in his eyes I've never seen before. “If you don’t want me to, I get that. I don’t have a great track record of the whole commitment thing, but I swear it on my life.” He pauses, but not out of hesitation.
To make sure I’m hearing him loud and clear.
“I will love that girl so fucking hard any future man who tries entering her life will seem like a disappointment.”
I gasp, the declaration melting every organ in my body. “You want to—” I can't finish the sentence, can't wrap my mind around what he's offering. “Why?”
“Because she deserves a father who gives a shit.” He pushes the certificate toward me. “And because I do. Give a shit, I mean. About her.”
Pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know were scrambled finally shift into place.
“Okay.” My voice barely a whisper. “Okay.”
He signs his name in the father slot—Huxley Garett Ward — and I reread it again. Garett? This is who Garett is named after? Not that I needed proof, since all he’s been since she came into our lives is committed, but this is a reminder. A reminder of the kind of man he keeps hidden inside.
He’ll never disappoint her the same way he’ll never disappoint Garett. The permanence steals my breath. We're bound now, legally and otherwise, through the little girl currently napping upstairs.
“Name?” He taps the line. “You wanna keep Olivia?”
I close my eyes, thinking of everything she's been through. Everything she's survived. “Olive,” I say finally. “It means peace. Legally keep it Olivia, but we can call her Olive.”
“Peace.” He tests the word, and a small smile crosses his face. “Yeah. That works.”
Olivia Hart-Ward. Our daughter. Even if the biology doesn't match, our hearts do.
And for a brief, shining moment, I let myself believe this could work.
Reality crashes back in by week four.
Olive's comfortable now. Sleeping in her own room. Hella took her shopping and moved her into the room opposite Garett’s. Mint green walls, freshly painted skirtings, and a swing chair that hangs in front of the window. He even bought her a little vanity with the light bulbs around the mirror.
She spends her days with me, learning to bake and telling me stories about Garret and the other kids at the compound.
With every passing day, she unravels more about herself, and I absorb every single inch of it.
Right down to the stories she told me about her other mother and father.
I tell her it’s okay to love and miss them, and that she’s special enough to have two sets of parents.
Closing the book of Hairy Maclary and his shenanigans, I wait until she's sound asleep before tiptoeing out to find Hella.
Sliding open the patio door, I lean against the frame, allowing myself a few brief seconds to admire this moment. Him working on his bike, grease covering skin, sweat beading over abs I’ve traced with my tongue.
“We need to talk.”
He doesn't look up. “Nothing good ever starts that way.”
I know it’s going to crush him, but I have to be real. This isn’t going to end well and filling Olive with false hope is cruel in the long run.
“I’ve got to take her home, Hella.” I force the words out before I lose my nerve. “Back to Westbeach. Back to my life.”
The wrench in his hand stills. “The fuck you are.”
“Hella—”
“No.” He stands, tossing the wrench aside. “You're not gonna pack up and leave after everything—”
“After everything what?” I step forward, anger flaring to cover the hurt as I close the door behind us. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, I do, but this is not going anywhere good, you know that! You and I are—”
“This isn’t about us.” His voice drops dangerously low. “This is about that kid upstairs who's finally feeling safe. Who's got a routine. Who's got people who care about her.”
“I care about her!” I snap, annoyance feeling like a rubber band.
“Then why are you running?”
The accusation hits too close to home. “I'm not running. I'm giving her a normal life. School, friends, a real home. This?” I wave my hands around the place, guilt from my words already setting. “Is not a home for her in the long run, not when you and I are so unstable, and not with fucking club bitches who are always hanging around you!” Okay the last part wasn’t fair, but I’m on a roll and the brakes are cut.
A snarl almost leaves him, and there’s real anger in his eyes now.
Hatred. “Don't you dare act like this place isn't safe. Like I haven't kept both of you protected since the moment you got here.” He takes a step. “Like you didn’t come fucking running right here, to me, when you needed reassurance. You don’t get to throw that shit out the equation just because I ain’t between your legs every night.”
I wince, head jerking back. “Fuck you. This isn’t about that!”
“Yeah?” His brows lift, but there’s no playful tone. No smirk. Just rage. “Lift your skirt and prove it.”
I step back, needing every bit of distance. “This!” I gesture between us. “This is what I mean, Hella. I can’t have the uncertainty, and you know what? I don’t want it anymore because now it feels forced.” Silence wrestles between us, the war feeling tiresome.
I wrap my arms around myself, feeling the cold seep in despite the warm night. “I'm saying we can't stay forever. I have a business. A life. A house that's not filled with men who kill people and bury them in the desert.”
“Right. Because Westbeach is so much safer.” His laugh is bitter. “Like it’s so much safer you ran back to them when shit got hard.”
The blow lands, and I flinch. “That was different.”
“How?”
“Because I couldn’t go to them!” The words explode out of me. “All my life, I thought she was safe, living a normal life, and I was willing to die to keep it that way. But now she's here, she's mine, and I need to figure out how to be her mother without—” My voice breaks. “Without you.”
Silence falls heavy between us.
“Without me.” He repeats it slowly, like he's tasting the words. “That's what this is about.”
“Hella—”
“Say what you mean, Melissa.” He closes the distance between us, backing me against the wall. “You're scared. Not of the club, not of your old life. Of this.” He gestures between us. “Of whatever the fuck we've got going on.”
“We don't have anything going on.” It’s a weak lie and we both know it. “We fuck sometimes. Argue always. That's it.”
“Is it?” His hands land on either side of me, caging me in.
“Because it feels like a hell of a lot more than that.
Feels like I've been sleeping in a chair for a month to make sure you both feel safe.
Feels like I signed my name on a birth certificate, claiming a kid that biologically ain't mine because I wanted to give her something real. Feels like—”
“Stop.” I press my hands against his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath my palms. “Stop.”
“Make me.”
God, I want to kiss him. Want to give in to this thing between us and damn the consequences. But I can't. Not when Olive's finally starting to heal. Not when I'm barely holding myself together.
“I need space.” My voice cracks. “I need to figure out how to be a mother without... without falling apart.”
“So you're gonna leave.” It's not a question.
“I'm asking you to let me go.” I meet his eyes, letting him see how much this is costing me. “For now.”
His jaw works, muscles tightening as he fights whatever he's feeling. “And if I say no?”
“Then I'll fight you.” I straighten my spine, channeling every ounce of strength I have left. “I'll take her and go, and you'll either let me or you'll prove you're exactly like every other man who's tried to control me.”
He steps back, his hands dropping to his sides. “That's a low blow.”
“Maybe.” I push off the wall, needing distance. “But it's true. I'm not asking for forever. I'm asking for time.”
“How much time?”
“I don't know.” And that's the truth. “The wedding's coming up. You can take her for the weekends, for holidays —whatever you want we can figure out. But the rest of the time, she needs to be with me. In a home that's ours.”
“She has a home here.” His features shift, hardening.
“She has a safe house here.” I correct him gently. “There's a difference.”
He turns away, scrubbing a hand over his face. When he speaks again, his voice is rough. “You're making a mistake.”
“Maybe. But it's mine to make.”
“Melissa.” He catches my wrist, pulling me back one last time. His forehead presses against mine, and I can feel the war raging inside him. “Don't do this.”
“I have to.” Tears leak down my cheek. “Please, Hella. Let me do this.”
His release is slow, like it physically hurts, and in every which way it does. “Fine. But when this blows up in your face—and it will—don't come crying to me.”
“I won't.”
I leave him standing in the garage, surrounded by tools and motorcycle parts and the ghost of what we might have been. And with every step toward the house, toward Olive's room where I'll pack our things, I tell myself I'm doing the right thing.
Even if it feels like I'm tearing my own heart out.