Page 80 of His Daughter

I hung up. I sat on the edge of the bed. The room was quiet. My face was wet. My hands were still. The shaking was gone.

Margot stayed. In a world where everyone left — Caleb, the agency, the birth mother who changed her mind, the mother who walked out when Ray called — Margot stayed.

I wiped my face and stood up.

I heard Declan's door open. I reached for my own handle at the same time, pulled it open, and stepped into the hallway.

He was standing outside his door, three feet away. He'd changed from his suit into joggers, a gray T-shirt, bare feet. His hair was pushed in every direction. His eyes were red.

We looked at each other.

"What you said was cruel," I said.

"I know." He didn't flinch. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

"You shouldn't have said it at all."

"I know that too." He leaned against the doorframe. His hand found the back of his neck. "I'm scared, Thea. The hearing is in three weeks. The Caine deal is collapsing. My chief of staff — " He stopped and swallowed. "Everything is falling apart, and I can't control any of it. I'm not built for this. I'm built to control things, and nothing is controllable right now."

"I know you're scared." I crossed my arms over my chest. "I'm scared too. But being scared doesn't give you the right to remind me that I'm disposable."

"I didn't say you were disposable."

"No. What you said was worse. You said I could walk away. Like I'm a guest. Like the several weeks of holding your daughter, feeding her, singing to her at three in the morning, falling asleep with her on my chest meant nothing because my name isn't on a piece of paper."

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. The grin arrived — small, crooked, entirely inappropriate for the moment.

"I should probably wash my mouth with soap then."

"This isn't a joke, Declan."

"Isn't it?" He gestured at the two of us. "Look at us. There's enough fire between us to light up the entire building."

I pressed my lips together. My jaw clenched. My eyes stung. And a laugh came out of me — involuntary and traitorous. He laughed too.

The laughter slowly faded. The hallway went quiet. We were standing close. I didn't remember moving, but the three feet between our doors was now one.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean it. Any of it. You are Lena's mother. In every way that counts." His voice dropped. "You're a better parent than I'll probably ever be. And I'm sorry for diminishing that."

My arms were still crossed, but the tightness was loosening.

"I'm sorry too." The words came slowly. "I should have known better than to leave Lena with my mother. I've spent my whole life knowing who Lorraine is, and I let myself believe this time would be different." I uncrossed my arms. "It wasn't."

He reached for me. His hand found my elbow, then my arm, then my waist. Slow. Asking permission at every inch.

I let him.

His forehead touched mine. His breath was warm on my mouth. Our breathing slowed together.

I kissed him. My hands on his jaw. His hands on my waist. The kiss was soft at first, the apology still in it. Then it deepened, his hands pulled me closer, my fingers slid into his hair, and we moved through his door without separating.

The bedroom was dark. The city glowed. His watch was already off. He pulled my shirt over my head. I pulled off his. We fell into each other and then into the bed, unashamed. Three hours apart had left us aching, and we needed the press of skin to feel the fight finally break.

After.

His bed. My head on his chest. His hand in my hair. The city silent. Lena's monitor on the nightstand, the green light blinking.

"We have to be on our best behavior for the hearing," I said.