Page 22 of This Reckless Home

We slowly pull apart, and he’s watching me with those dark eyes.

I find myself tracing the scars on Steele's chest, my fingers gentle as they map the evidence of his past. “Can I ask you something?” My voice comes out softer than I intended.

“Anything, Flower.”

I hesitate, my finger pausing on a particularly vicious scar near his ribs. “When I told you last night, about not being able to have kids. You didn't even hesitate. Why?” My heartbeat thrashes in my chest, my eyes unable to meet his as I wait.

He captures my wandering hand, brings it to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “Because it doesn't matter.” My gaze snaps up to his.

“It matters to most people.” My throat tightens as my father’s harsh words try to sound in my ears.

“I’m not most people.” He tugs me closer, arranging me so I'm draped across his chest, his arms banding around me. “Tell me about it. I’d like to know, to understand. But only if you want.”

I'm quiet for a long moment, my cheek pressed against his pec where I can hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat, letting it lend me strength. Then the words start spilling out.

“It's called MRKH syndrome. Happens to about one in five thousand women.” My finger resumes tracing his scars, needing something to do with my hands. “Lucky me, right?”

“Hey.” His hand comes up, tilting my face so I have to meet his eyes. They’re full of concern, of warmth that makes the backs of my eyes prickle. “None of that.”

I try for a smile and fail. “My father certainly thought I was unlucky. One more way I failed to be the daughter he wanted.” My voice breaks slightly. “Can't even give him grandchildren to carry on the family name. Turns out Nox was right—I really am just a poor little rich girl with daddy issues.”

A growl rumbles through his chest, the sound vibrating against me. “Your father's a fucking asshole. And Nox was talking out his ass.”

That startles a real laugh out of me, even as tears prick my eyes. “Yeah. He really is. My father. An arsehole, I mean.”

His arms tighten around me, one hand coming up to stroke my hair. “You said you found out at sixteen right? When your periods never started?” I’m grateful to move away from the subject of my dad, it’s a wound that never heals. That still bleeds.

“Yeah.” I feel his inhale of breath. “My periods never started and my GP finally sent me for scans.” The memory still aches, even after all these years and I have to force myself to take a deep breath. “I was born without a uterus or cervix. I have ovaries and they work fine, produce eggs normally, but…” I shrug against him, trying for casual and missing entirely. “Nowhere for a baby to grow. ”

“Fuck, Blossom.” His voice is strained, like he’s hurting for me.

“I had to do a lot of work to have any kind of normal intimate life — years of treatment. But I got there.” My small smile fades as memories flood my mind. “I remember sitting in that doctor's office, hearing them explain that I'd never carry a child, and just... shattering. Like my whole future had been rewritten in an instant.” The tears are falling now, silent and hot against my cheeks. “I was devastated. Felt so broken.”

“You're not broken,” he says, fierce and immediate.

I lift my head to look at him, needing him to understand. “I know that now. Took a while, but I got there. Well, mostly. My father though…” I swallow hard. “He made it worse. He could barely look at me after. This just felt like more proof I was fundamentally flawed.”

The rage in his eyes is immediate and scorching. “He said that to you?”

“He didn't have to say it. I could see it every time he looked at me. Every time he left me behind.” I rest my chin on his chest. “But then I realised—if I couldn't have children the traditional way, I'd mother the ones who desperately needed someone to love them.” My smile is bittersweet. “Poured all of that grief into something good. Something meaningful.”

“That's why you started fostering so young,” he says, light in his eyes as understanding dawns.

“The second I turned eighteen and inherited this house from my mother. Packed up and moved here from England. Tina thought I was crazy, but she helped anyway.” My smile becomes genuine. “And now I have six—well seven including Justin—kids who call this place home. Plus have all the others who’ve passed through. I can't carry them in my womb, but I carry them in my heart just the same.”

“They're lucky to have you, Flower.” His voice is thick and his hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing away my tears.

“I’m lucky to have them.” I search his eyes, needing to know. “But Steele? It's okay if you change your mind. About me. About this. Things have happened so fast and if you want kids of your own someday⁠—”

He stops me with a kiss—firm, possessive, leaving no room for doubt.

“I meant what I said last night,” he says when he pulls back, his forehead resting against mine. “You're not getting rid of me that easily. Or my brothers.”

My breath catches, my cheeks heating. “Your brothers?”

His smile is slow and wicked. “They're going to want you too, Bloom. I told you, they’re halfway there already. And when they find out about this?” His hand slides possessively over my hip. “They're going to want to make damn sure you know it doesn't matter to them either.”

Before I can respond to that earth-shattering statement, his expression shifts—becomes more serious, almost vulnerable in a way I haven't seen from him before.