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Fourteen
Aela
The following morning
“I needyou to not freak out.”
Declan, in the process of shaving, turned to face me. “Freak out about what?” He smirked. “Takes a lot to freak me out, babe.”
“I just got an email from the First Lady’s office.”
“As in the president’s wife?”
“Who else would I mean?” I grumbled.
“Do you often get calls from the spouses of heads of state?”
My lips quirked. “Baby, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “What do they want?”
“Art. What else? I’m in demand, dontcha know?”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I’m a genius. At least, according to the critics.”
“I know that. I mean, why did the First Lady email you?”
I watched as he smoothed the electric razor over his throat. The act was distinctly domestic. I’d never been into domestic before Declan.
The routine shit that most people took for granted wasn’t exactly a turn on, but it was comforting.
It was proof this was happening.
This was real.
After nearly fifteen years apart, I needed real. I needed routine.
So watching him shave was a pleasure, not something to be taken for granted.
Eying the up and down strokes, I murmured, “She wants me to attend the state dinner tomorrow.”
“You?”
This was where it got dicey—especially with the current situation.
I nodded then verbally confirmed, “Not us.”
I wasn’t going to beat around the bush. He’d picked up on my specific verbiage because people might mistake the man for a filthy dark Five Points’ bruiser, but Declan was smart.
Wicked smart.
“You’re not going without me.”
My inner feminist railed at the blanket statement, but the city was going to hell in a handbasket.
I’d spent a portion of the holidays in a fucking bunker while the family compound got raided by a private militia, and the country was destabilized thanks to the vacuums of power popping up because of those pesky Sparrows.
