4. Declan
DECLAN
The relief that floods through me when Dr. Reeves confirms she'll recover is so powerful it nearly buckles my knees. Full recovery. Those are the only words that matter, the only thing I can hold onto while the rest of the world tilts sideways.
I watch Zola process the rest—the hysterectomy, the permanence of it—and I want to rage at the unfairness.
Want to put my fist through the wall, find the driver who did this, make them understand what they've taken.
But none of that will help her right now.
None of that will ease the shock written across her face or the way her amber eyes have gone distant, looking at something I can't see.
"You're alive." I say it again because I need her to understand. "That's all that matters to me."
She blinks, focuses on my face. Something vulnerable flickers behind her eyes, something that looks like fear.
"But Dec—"
"No." I frame her face with both hands, gentle despite the fury still coursing through my veins. "Listen to me, love. You're here. You're breathing. You're going to heal. Everything else—we'll figure it out. But I need you to understand that this doesn't change anything between us."
"It changes everything." Her voice cracks. "I can't give you—"
"I don't care." The words come out fierce, absolute. "I don't give a fuck about any of that. I care about you. Just you."
I watch her throat work as she tries to swallow, tries to process what I'm saying against whatever nightmare scenarios are playing in her head.
She's always been afraid of needing people, of depending on anyone after watching her mother die.
And now her body's betrayed her in a way she couldn't prevent, couldn't control, couldn't fight.
Dr. Reeves clears his throat quietly. "I'll give you two some time. Zola, I'll check back in a few hours. If your pain increases or you feel anything unusual, press the call button."
He slips out, and the door closes behind him with that same too-final click. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything unsaid.
"I'm taking you home." I keep my voice steady, certain. "Soon as they clear you. You're coming home with me and you're going to rest and let me take care of you."
Usually she'd fight this, push back against my need to handle things for her. But something's shifted. The shock or the pain or maybe just exhaustion has worn down her defenses enough that she just nods.
"Okay."
That single word of agreement tells me how badly she's rattled. I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, feeling the warmth of her skin, the realness of her.
"We'll get through this." I lean forward, press my forehead against hers carefully, mindful of any injuries I might not see. "I've got you. I promise."
Her hand comes up, fingers curling around my wrist. "I know."
She does know. For all her fears about dependence, about needing people, she's never doubted that I'll be there. That's the foundation we've built everything else on—the certainty that I'm not going anywhere, that I'm hers completely even if she can't quite believe she's allowed to have that.
I stay like that, touching her, reassuring myself that she's real and whole and alive, until her breathing evens out and her grip on my wrist loosens. The pain medication pulls her under gradually, her eyes drifting closed despite her attempts to stay awake.
"Sleep, love." I shift carefully, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I'll be right here."
She murmurs something unintelligible and lets sleep take her. I stay beside the bed, one hand still holding hers, counting the steady rise and fall of her chest. Each breath is proof that she's okay, that we didn't lose this, that whatever bastard ran her down didn't succeed in taking her from me.
I'm memorizing the curve of her jaw, the way her braids fall across the pillow, when a soft knock interrupts. The door cracks open and Stellan leans in, reading the situation with that quick intelligence that makes him so effective.
"She's asleep," I say quietly.
He nods, steps fully into the room, and his expression goes carefully neutral in a way that means trouble. "Uncle's here."
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. "What?"
"He heard what happened." Stellan keeps his voice low, aware of Zola sleeping three feet away. "He's waiting in the hall. Wants to talk to you."
Of course he does. Vittorio Wolfe doesn't let anything happen in this city without knowing about it, especially not when it involves family.
He's known about Zola—it's impossible to hide a relationship this serious for two years—but he's never taken it seriously.
Never acknowledged her as more than a passing phase, something I'd grow out of once I focused properly on family business.
"I'm not leaving her alone." The words come out hard, non-negotiable.
"I'll sit with her." Stellan moves closer, glancing at Zola's sleeping face with something that might almost be concern. "If she wakes up, I'll tell her you'll be right back."
I don't want to leave. Every instinct I have screams at me to stay put, to keep watching over her, to make sure nothing else can hurt her.
But Uncle doesn't make requests. When he shows up and asks for your time, you give it to him.
That's the hierarchy we live in, the rules that have governed our family for generations.
"Fine." I stand carefully, releasing Zola's hand with reluctance. "Five minutes."
"Take as long as you need." Stellan settles into the chair I vacated, assuming my vigil with the same protective intensity. Whatever else he is, he's loyal. When he says he'll watch over her, I can trust that.
I move to the door, pausing with my hand on the handle to look back. Zola's face is peaceful in sleep, the stress and shock temporarily erased. She looks younger like this, vulnerable in a way she never allows when she's conscious.
The hallway is too bright after the dimness of the hospital room, fluorescent lights harsh against institutional white walls.
Uncle Vittorio stands twenty feet down, near the nurses' station, somehow managing to look authoritative and dangerous despite the sterile medical setting.
He's in his early sixties but carries himself like a man twenty years younger, all controlled power and old-world command.
"Uncle." I close the distance between us, aware of curious glances from hospital staff who sense without understanding that this man is someone important, someone you don't cross.
"Declan." He clasps my shoulder, the gesture brief and formal. "I heard about the accident. Unfortunate business."
Unfortunate. The word scrapes against my temper like sandpaper. Zola getting hit by some reckless piece of shit isn't unfortunate—it's criminal. It's someone nearly taking the most important thing in my world away from me.
"I'll find out who was driving." I keep my voice level through sheer force of will. "And they'll pay for what they did."
"I'm sure you will." Uncle studies my face with those sharp dark eyes that miss nothing. "How is she? The girl?"
The girl. Not Zola. Not her name. Just the girl, like she's interchangeable with any other woman in the city.
"She'll recover fully." I bite down on the anger, knowing it won't help anything here. "Few weeks of healing and she'll be fine."
Uncle's expression shifts almost imperceptibly. "I heard she can't bear children."
Of course he heard. Uncle has ears everywhere, informants in every corner of the city including apparently the hospital staff. Nothing happens in Philadelphia without him knowing within hours.
"That's true." My jaw clenches so hard it aches. "The impact caused internal damage. They had to perform emergency surgery."
"Unfortunate," he says again. "I suppose she can still make a good mistress. Even better since there will be no bastards." Uncle says it matter-of-factly, like he's discussing weather patterns.
I blink at him. "What?"
He waves his hand. "She was never suitable as a wife, anyway, Declan. But you need heirs. You know this. Now, she can't give you any, which means it is time to move on from this…situation you have been in."
The words gut me even as they piss me off because somewhere underneath the fury, I know there's truth there.
I've been raised in this world, groomed for leadership since I was old enough to understand what our family does.
And one of the unspoken requirements—one of the foundational expectations—is children.
Heirs to continue the bloodline, to ensure the family's power extends into the next generation.
"I love her." The admission comes out rough because I have nothing else.
"Love." Uncle's mouth twists slightly, not quite contempt but close. "Love is a luxury, nephew. One you can afford as long as it doesn't interfere with your responsibilities."
"She's not a luxury." My hands curl into fists at my sides. "She's—"
"She's unsuitable." Uncle cuts through my protest with the efficiency of a blade.
"She was always unsuitable. No family connections, no standing in our world, no way to strengthen our position.
I've tolerated this distraction because you're young and young men need to work these things out of their systems. But you're being groomed to lead this family eventually.
You need a proper wife. Someone from the families, someone who understands this life, someone who can give you the heirs you'll need. "
Each word drives deeper, twisting in my chest like a knife.
Because he's not wrong about the expectations, about what's required of someone in my position.
The families intermarry strategically, building alliances through blood and marriage contracts.
That's how it's always worked, how power is consolidated and maintained.
But the thought of anyone else, of some strategically chosen woman who isn't Zola—it makes me physically ill.
"I'm not marrying someone else." The words come out flat, absolute.
"Then you're not taking over this family.
" Uncle's voice hardens, taking on the edge of command that's made him feared across three states.
"This isn't negotiable, Declan. You want the power, the position, the responsibility—it comes with requirements.
You need legitimate heirs. She can't provide them. "
I know it's true. Just like I know I'd give up everything for Zola.
Maybe there's another option, but I won't abandon her the way everyone else has. Not even for everything I've ever worked for.