“You hate him. You despise him. In fact, when I came back and told you about the room of torture, you wanted to fly to his place, pick him up in your talons, and drop him in the East River.”
“Too easy,” she remarked, glancing toward the brightly lit building next door. “And I think he’s a good swimmer.”
“Dani!”
The hawk jerked her head back. “Okay, fine. He was an asshole. When his emotions were stripped, he was without a conscience. He was a dog. No. I like dogs. He was a slug who deserved to be crushed—”
“Oh, my gods, Dani!”
“But now,” she said quickly, “I’m not so sure.”
Petra’s chest tightened, and she pulled her coat closer around herself. “Now?”
“Okay, don’t be pissed.”
Something close to anxiety started in Petra’s toes and began to move upward. “Oh, crap. What did you do?”
“He came to me,” Dani said, her hawk’s eyes softening. “We talked.”
Petra turned away in a huff. “I can’t believe this.”
“He’s different.”
Petra jerked back. “You didn’t just say that.”
“Not because of anything that was done to him, getting his emotions back and all that, but because he wants to be different.” She was quiet for a moment, then cocked her head. “For you.”
Sudden and irritatingly uncontrollable tears pricked Petra’s eyes. She shook her head, the winter wind thrashing her hair about her face. “He conned you. With his dreamy eyes and his piano playing and his accent, and that body, and—”
“No, babe. I’ve never seen any of that. I’m a shifter girl all the way.” Her hawk winked. “My male’s gotta have hair or feathers or scales. You get the picture.”
Petra sighed deeply. Yes. She got the picture. About it all. Synjon had gone to Dani and told her that he wanted Petra and the balas. He’d convinced the most impossible to convince creature on earth that he was all in.
Maybe . . .
Oh, goddamn it. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “I’m just so fucking scared to believe . . .”
The hawk lowered her head, nuzzled Petra’s face with her beak. “I know.”
“So what do we do now? What do I do?”
“Get back on.”
It was probably the most foolish move in the world, to believe, to hope. But it had come from Dani. The female who never believed in love. Inside Petra’s womb, Little Fangs kicked and squirmed, and maybe nudged her forward and onto her friend’s back.
In seconds they took off and then, a moment later, landed on the balcony below.
His balcony.
“Go in, Pets,” Dani urged. “He’s waiting for you.”
With shaking limbs, and fear gripping her heart, Petra climbed off Dani’s back. Behind her, she heard the glass doors open. She took a deep breath and turned around.
If it was possible, Synjon Wise had grown even more handsome in the week and a half since she’d seen him, and her fearful heart warmed without her consent. He was dressed all in black, his eyes impossibly dark, his mouth full and highly kissable, and his hair had that tousled look, like he’d just gotten out of bed. He was truly the male of her dreams.
He looked up at Dani then, and nodded. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing, bloodsucker,” she tossed back with a squawk. “Now don’t fuck it up again.”
It was just like Dani not to wait for an answer. She spread her wings and leaped off the balcony. Leaving the two of them alone. Leaving Petra to a fate she prayed didn’t once again lead to tears.
• • •
As he led Petra into the house, Syn felt like a nervous young paven. He loved this veana so bloody much, wanted her so bloody much, he thought he’d lose his mind over it. He needed her to see that, understand his heart and his hope through his actions.
“I’m glad you came,” he said.
“Didn’t have much of a choice. Dani tricked me.” She stopped for a moment and glanced over at the tree. It was fully decorated now, sporting small white lights, and beneath it were all the things he wanted her to have, all the things he’d found for the baby over the past week.
Her eyes cut to his piano, which stood to the left of the tree, then down to the child’s piano he had not only tuned himself but polished as he did his own.
He heard her quick intake of breath, saw her shake her head, and reached for her hand. For a moment, he was sure she was going to pull away. But she didn’t. Granted, she wasn’t cuddling up to his side or anything, but she wasn’t flinching at his touch either.
The realization made him breathe easier, made him hope.
“I want to show you something,” he said, leading her through the living room, past the kitchen and down the hall.
“You’ve changed things,” she said quietly, her gaze darting from left to right. “New artwork, different colors, furniture. Why?”
His chest tightened.
“You know why, love,” he said leading her into his bedroom.
“I don’t know if I want to go in here, Syn,” she said tightly. “Don’t know if I want to revisit the . . .” Her voice petered out as she entered the room. Her lips parted and she stared. “What did you do?”
He turned to look at her, watch her as she took in the complete remodel of his bedroom—what he wanted to be their bedroom. New furniture, softer fabric, colors he knew she loved. “The pillows you bought with Sara. I used them as inspiration.” He eyed her. “You like it?”
Her head fell forward. “Oh, Syn, does it matter if I like it? Really?”
“More than you can possibly know, love.” He squeezed her hand, then tugged it a little. “But that’s not what I really want you to see. Come.”
• • •
Petra felt as though the unbeating heart inside her chest was expanding, preparing to burst, as Syn led her into the en suite bathroom, and toward the room beyond. It was truly the last place on earth she wanted to go. She hated what she’d found here. How it had ruined everything. Ended what she’d thought was a true hope for love, a family. Why would—
Her thoughts ended abruptly.
Oh, gods.
Oh, gods.
Emotion caught in her throat. Fear and wonder and amazement. Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked to force them away, down her cheeks. She wanted to see clearly, take in what was before her with cool, detached eyes. But that was just an impossible hope.
It was too incredible.
Gone were the closet, the clothes, the leather and the wool. Gone was the room full of metal and hate and anger and vengeance. And in its place was a completely remodeled space. Pale yellow walls, fanciful artwork, bookcases and dressers, rugs and lamps, a rocker and a crib.
The most beautiful crib she’d ever seen.
Petra bit her lip to keep from crying, from blubbering like a fool . . . or maybe just an emotional pregnant chick. But nothing was going to stop the tears from raining down her cheeks.
A baby’s room.
Syn had turned a room meant for such darkness into a room of light and softness and innocence.
He released her hand. She’d forgotten she was holding his, gripping it so tightly that she’d probably bruised him. She watched him walk over to the rocker and sit down.
“I’m so sorry, Petra. For everything. For lying to you, lying to myself. For hurting you.” His eyes locked with hers and implored her to listen. Really listen. “I’m not asking you to live here. I know I don’t deserve that. But I want you to understand that in my mind and in my heart, you and the balas have a home here.”
Petra leaned against the doorframe and stared at him in that rocker. That sweet, happy rocker. And envisioned him holding Little Fangs in his arms. She couldn’t believe it. Any of it. That he’d gone to these lengths. Was it truly possible that one so hell-bent on revenge could find a new and infinitely more beautiful way to live out his life?
She didn’t know. Gods, she didn’t know. But she wanted to find out. So badly that she ached with it.
“I may not be the male you believed could be your family, be the balas’s father,” he said, his dark eyes pinning her where she stood. “But in my mind, my heart, I am.”
In her mind and heart, he was too. He’d proved that on the night he’d saved her, sacrificed himself and his need to claim vengeance, for her and the balas, at the gathering stones. And he’d proved it with this incredible room.
“You fought for me, remember, love?”
She nodded, not even trying to hold back her tears anymore. And truly, what was the point? This was the male she loved, the father of her child. Her one wish had come true. Tears were more than appropriate. They were called for.
“When I was ready to give up,” he said, his eyes full of warmth and hope, “you fought for me. Now I’m fighting for us, for you, for Little Fangs there. We’re a family. I want us to be together always. I love you, Petra.”
The words killed her. Not the part of her that had still believed in a future with this male, but the part that had wanted to give up, run away because she didn’t want to be hurt again.
“Syn . . .”
“I’m not rushing you, not asking you to decide anything or change anything. I just wanted you to see where I’m at. What I’m offering. Long term. Forever. And to know if you could possibly forgive me.”
Inside her womb, the balas moved, pressing against her skin. Maybe it just wanted to stretch its little limbs. Or maybe, like her, it wanted to be closer to that voice. And to the paven it loved.
“Cruen—,” she began, hating herself for bringing that male’s name into this room.
But Syn was quick to answer, and his tone was completely unfettered. “Love, I’m no longer concerned with chasing your father. I want to be a father.”
That was it. She needed nothing more. Gods, nothing more than him.
Petra pushed away from the door, fairly leaped across the room and jumped into his lap. Instantly Syn’s protective arms went around her and he groaned into her hair. Heat infused her. Love too. And then he started to rock. Back and forth. Back and forth.