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Lukas glanced her way before saying to the boy, his voice even gruffer than usual, ‘I’m going to try.’
With a burst of energy that reminded Bronte poignantly of the little boy he had been, Nico leapt forward and scrambled across the bed to wrap his arms as far as he could around Lukas’s waist and bury his head in his shirt front. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’ the little boy declared. ‘I hate being sick—it’s horrid.’
And then he began to cry, deep heart-wrenching sobs that tore at Bronte’s chest as she gripped his shoulders, trying to soothe him, desperate to draw him away from Lukas, who had tensed and lifted his hands—looking for a split second both shocked and wary...and completely lost for words.
Clearly the big bad billionaire had zero experience with kids.
The situation would almost be comical if Bronte hadn’t been feeling so over-emotional herself. Scooping Nico up, she placed him back in the bed and tucked him under the covers, careful not to put any more strain on the line in his arm.
Ignoring Lukas, who was still standing stiffly by the bed, she smoothed Nico’s hair back from his forehead as the boy bit back the sobs which he must have been keeping in for a long time. ‘It’s all right, Nikky. Cry as much as you want.’
He hiccupped slightly, the tears passing. ‘But I don’t want to cry. I want to be a brave boy.’
‘You are a brave boy,’ she whispered against his face and gave him a little squeeze, making him smile through the last remnants of his tears. ‘Even if you cry, remember?’
He nodded but his eyelids were already drooping, the brief spurt of action having exhausted his frail stamina. ‘Can the superman stay with me?’
Bronte glanced over her shoulder to see Lukas still looking shocked and wary. ‘Of course he can. He’ll stay until you fall asleep, okay?’
Lukas gave a terse nod.
‘’kay,’ Nico murmured, apparently soothed by Lukas’s austere presence. This child wasn’t just brave; he was heroic. But he was still just a little boy—a little boy who had been forced to deal with far too much already. A little boy who desperately needed her to be the brave one right now. As if to confirm the thought, Nico stuffed a thumb into his mouth and gripped a chunk of her hair in his small fist, the way he had done ever since he was a baby. ‘Sing me Puff,’ he said.
She sang his favourite nursery song about a magic dragon, imbuing the notes with all the love she felt and the new sense of hope, until he fell asleep.
Snuggling against him, she breathed in his scent. Even tinged with the chemical scent of the hospital ward, it still gave her the essential rush of love she’d felt the first time she’d held his tiny body in her arms.
‘You’ll be better soon, Nico. I promise,’ she whispered.
Kissing his cheek, she got off the bed, her weariness buoyed by a new wave of possibility. But when she caught sight of Lukas Blackstone, still standing by the bed staring down at Nico, she felt a jolt of panic and even fear.
No matter what happened now, their lives would be irrevocably changed, having this man in them. And right now she’d never felt less ready to deal with that change. And him.
She straightened as his gaze moved from the bed and locked on her—the jolt became hot and fluid, disconcerting her. He studied her with that cool dark gaze and she struggled to contain her response. Her visceral physical reaction to this man was something she needed to control—not least because it made no sense. And it would only make this situation more difficult.
‘He’s so small,’ he murmured, surprising her.
‘Actually, Nico is tall for his age,’ she replied. ‘Despite his illness.’
Probably because he’s related to you, she thought, having to crane her neck to address him. Her gaze took in those broad shoulders and the tall, lean, intimidating frame. Even with his jacket off and his shirt sleeves rolled up he seemed forbidding—she tried and failed to imagine Nico as a young man. Would he be that tall? That handsome?
The scar on Lukas’s cheek tensed as he returned his gaze to the bed and the child sleeping peacefully on it.
He studied Nico for a long time, clearly taking in every aspect of the child, but his features registered little or no emotion.
One thing Nico wouldn’t be, Bronte silently promised herself, was so arrogant and cynical—so devoid of warmth. She wondered again what had happened to him to make him so determined to keep his feelings so closely guarded. Because something must have happened. However imperturbable he seemed, she had seen the shocked emotion cross his face when Nico had
hugged him, making her sure he had feelings—he just didn’t want to reveal them.
‘Why did you tell him I was going to save him?’ he said at last. ‘There’s no guarantee that I will be a suitable match and, even if I am, this is an experimental treatment.’ There was no censure in the question, the tone pragmatic, but still Bronte felt the flicker of criticism, the need to defend herself. She bit back the caustic response though, as she spotted the plaster on the inside of his arm, covering the small bruise forming where the doctor had taken his blood for testing.
Lukas Blackstone was here—and prepared to do the right thing—for that she would give him as much encouragement and cooperation as she possibly could. It was also pretty obvious he had absolutely no knowledge of kids, which gave her the upper hand. Not that they were in competition. But she could guide him, if she handled the situation sensibly—instead of going in with all her insecurities blazing. The dull red mark on his chin made her feel ashamed of her previous interactions with him.
‘Right now, what Nico needs is hope,’ she replied. ‘And while it’s an experimental treatment, they’ve had terrific results so far. The doctor also said already that the blood work suggests you’ll be a near perfect match.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But in the future could I suggest you don’t mythologise me too much. I’m unlikely to have much interaction with the boy once this is over.’
‘You won’t?’ she blurted out, forgetting that having him in their lives wasn’t something she particularly wanted. ‘But you’re his uncle.’
