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And hours later, Tempest Talia Ava Maroni slid out into the world with a scream louder than her mother’s. Her lost sister never followed.
Dante looked down at the little warrior princess in his arms, his little storm, and felt something shift inside him, fall, click into place, locked tight. With the names of both women who had protected their children in their own ways – his mother and Amara’s – Tempest was a wrinkly, scrawny little thing, with a head full of dark hair and eyes squinted closed, looking nothing like the babies he saw in the media. He’d never seen anything more beautiful.
With her rump on his palm and her entire body – waddled in a blanket – fitting in the crook of his arm, Dante felt his eyes begin to burn.
“Dante-” the voice croaked from the hospital bed, bringing his attention to the woman he didn’t even know what he felt for anymore. Love was too tame a word, adoration too juvenile. Broken and bleeding at fifteen, she had made his world tremble; exhausted and spent now, she owned it.
He went to sit beside her, putting his precious bundle over her chest, watching as the woman his entire life b
elonged to gave a tearful smile, sobbing as she brought up a scarred hand to hold her, her ring glinting in the muted light.
“She made it,” Amara rasped out, her liquid eyes taking her in, before coming to his, shimmering with such endless emotion he felt himself falling into them again. Her eyes, those unique, beautiful, expressive eyes, had always been the hook into his chest.
“She’s a fighter,” Dante said, his voice sounding rough to his ears. “Like you.”
Amara’s lips trembled. “She ours, Dante. Ours. After all this time.”
Dante pressed a kiss to her wet lips. “My warrior queen. I’m so proud of you.”
Amara nuzzled her nose against his. “Did you count her toes?”
“Every one of them.”
The princess made a mou with her lips, a mewl coming from her little body.
“We will keep her safe, won’t we?” she asked him quietly, still looking down at their miracle. Dante rubbed the baby’s soft skin with a finger, his heart clenching as she gripped it with her tiny hands, the trust in the action the same unconscious trust fifteen-year-old Amara had shown him. It made everything inside him vow to shield them.
“Yes, we will,” he vowed.
“And if she ever cracks?” Amara locked her gaze with his.
“Then we fill her up with gold.”
She smiled, and Dante pressed his forehead to hers.
“Oh my god, she’s precious,” Morana cooed at little Tempest as Amara sat up on the hospital bed with her in her arms while Dante sat on a chair by the side.
They had just told Amara the story. Morana had been the one to find her in the room, having heard gunshots, and she had been the one to scream for help. Tristan had been the one to rush in, pick Amara up and carry her to the car while giving out instructions to get Nerea’s body away. Morana had sat in the back with her while Tristan had driven like a madman to the hospital, calling Dante on the way. She had been in labor for five hours with Dante by her side before Tempest came out, screaming like a banshee at being inconvenienced out of her mother’s snug womb.
The baby blinked around, her eyes a little more open.
“She has your eyes,” Tristan noted, standing behind Morana. Yes, and Dante loved that. Just like Amara had inherited her eyes from her mother, Tempest had inherited them from her.
Amara looked around the room, her face falling a bit and he realized she missed Vin. Dante felt bad about that. He should have been there with them in this important moment, but he was deep underground with Xavier, having been taken into the fold on MrX’s recommendation. He contacted Dante once a week with updates and Dante was expecting his call today. He looked down at his watch, to see it was early yet.
His eyes went to Tristan’s hand as he slowly put a finger over the baby’s cheek, and the tattoo on his ring finger caught Dante’s eye. It was too good an opportunity to pass.
“That tattoo,” Dante said, grinning. “You’re so romantic, Tristan.”
Tristan gave him a middle finger that Morana immediately slapped. “There are children here. No weird gestures.”
“Tell him not to piss me off,” Tristan said, giving Dante a look.
“No cursing either,” Morana pointed out.
Amara’s soft laughter rang from the bed. “You’ll be her godparents,” she said softly to the two people in the room, her mother having left just a few minutes ago after seeing her granddaughter.
“Are you sure?” Morana asked for the hundredth time.
