Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(109)

“Wait,” he said, his eyes searching hers wildly as she sat back down. “Laire, are you sayin’ . . . that . . . that Ava Grace is . . .” He shook his head, faster and faster. “No. That’s impossible.”

But she could see it—the way he was putting the pieces together:

The strange coincidence of her name.

That her hair color was a perfect mixture of theirs.

That her eyes were mirror images of his.

That her father was a “dark-haired prince.”

That he’d fallen hard—head over heels—for Ava Grace, when he met her only a few days ago, almost like his heart knew her heart, knew that the blood coursing through her veins belonged, in part, to him.

“Well, actually,” she said gently, “if you do the math, you’ll see that it isn’t impossible at all. She was born on May 10.”

“She looks like she’s about four.”

“She’ll be six this coming year.”

“Wait,” he said, lifting the bourbon to his lips and finishing what Laire hadn’t. “No. This can’t be possible.”

“She’s just petite,” said Laire, her voice breaking. She couldn’t read his face. She couldn’t read his voice. She couldn’t figure out what he was feeling. All she could see was stark disbelief, and she was starting to get scared.

He ran a hand through his thick hair, holding on to the back of his neck as he stared at her with wide eyes. “But we didn’t—”

“We did enough.”

“You’re sayin’ . . . Oh, my God, Laire.” He stared at her, the truth finally becoming clear to him. “You’re sayin’ she’s my . . .”

“She’s yours, Erik,” she gasped, her heart racing so fast, she wondered if she might faint. “Yours and mine. We’re her parents. Just . . . just look at her. You’re her father.”

“I’m her father,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes, which he blinked away, staring down at the empty tumbler in his hands. “I’m her . . . father.”

“Yes.” Laire dropped to her knees, taking the glass from his hands and threading her fingers through his. “I swear I’m telling the truth.”

“Ava Grace is my daughter,” he said, looking up at her, a fierce, wild look in his eyes.

“Yes,” she confirmed, ignoring the tears that streamed down her face and down his.

He snatched his hands away from her and leaned back in his chair, his face contorting with anger, his nose flaring and his lips tightening.

“She’s almost six years old, Laire.”

Laire nodded, sitting back on her haunches, feeling wary.

“Six. Years,” he growled softly, his eyes furious.

“Yes,” she whispered, her heart in her throat as she knelt at his feet.

He pressed a hand to his chest, staring at her through watery eyes, his face a mask of anguish. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried,” she sobbed, her shoulders starting to shake with the force of her tears.

“What the fuck do you mean, you tried?” he demanded, lurching forward in his seat. “Here are the facts, Laire: I didn’t know because you didn’t tell me. So you sure as shit didn’t try hard enou—”

“I was there!” she cried. “On Thanksgiving. I was there, Erik.”

“No.” Erik stared at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each shallow breath. He shook his head, holding his hand up in refusal. “No. No, you weren’t. You didn’t come. Your boat wasn’t there. You didn’t—”

“I did,” she said, her voice breaking as more tears slid down her cheeks and she sat back on her bottom, raising her knees and clutching them against her chest. “My brother-in-law drove me over. Your mother . . .” She sobbed, then took a deep breath. “Your mother intercepted me by the pool, and we . . .” She raised her chin and nailed him with her eyes, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice when she remembered that terrible night, “talked.”

He narrowed his eyes, scanning her face as his attack posture relaxed, and she knew what he was doing: desperately trying to figure out if she was telling the truth.

Finally he flinched, holding his breath like breathing would hurt.

“Tell me what happened, Laire.” His voice was a mix of gravel and thunder, his eyes flinty—as dark and dangerous as she could ever remember them. “Tell me what my mother did.”





Chapter 23


“I have to start earlier,” she said, still sitting in a ball at his feet. She sniffled, then reached up and wiped away her tears. “But . . . can you calm down? A-and listen to me and not yell at me? Because I’m feeling very emotional and . . .”

Inside, he was in turmoil, but he nodded. “Fine.”

“I’m just going to get a cup of water. I’ll be right back,” she said, standing up and walking over to his bathroom.

He heard her run the water and forced himself to take a huge breath of air before she started talking again. Leaning his head on the back of the chair, he closed his eyes for a moment, clasping his shaking hands together in his lap.

In the past five minutes, he’d learned that he had a daughter—that he and Laire had a daughter.