“Dyadya! Dyadya!” Uncle! Uncle! The little girl bounced on me as if I was a trampoline until Ronan hauled her onto his chest. His blood-smeared chest. The man may be wearing pants while I wore his T-shirt, but this scene was far from PG. She either didn’t notice his wounded arm and all the blood, or she simply didn’t find it important. From what I’d learned of her during our first meeting, I knew it was the latter.
“Moya neposlushnaya plemyannitsa,” Ronan chuckled, tickling the girl’s sides. She giggled, her dark braids bouncing. She wore another band T-shirt as a dress—this one Death—and long socks covered with kittens.
I leaned against the headboard and watched them with a sense of awe. This was another side of Ronan I hadn’t seen, and I had to say, this gray part of him was . . . one I undeniably loved. I realized it last night. With his hands in my hair, the carnal taste of him in my mouth, and his eyes on mine. I
’d almost said it then . . . I’d almost let those three words escape, but something had blocked them from coming up my throat.
I loved him.
I couldn’t love him.
So I forced the feeling to stay inside where it belonged and not out in the open where it didn’t.
“Stop!” the girl squealed through tortured laughter while Ronan tickled her feet. He sniffed them and pretended they smelled bad, wrinkling his nose. She could barely breathe from giggling.
I’d never thought much about having children, but seeing uncle and niece interact filled my chest with a warm yearning. Though the feeling faded when I recalled this happy moment would just be a memory someday, and any kids I had would never be Ronan’s.
When the tickle torture stopped, the girl caught her breath and turned to look at me. Again, her dark eyes filled with judgement. And maybe a little jealousy.
“Dyadya, if she’s not Satan, who is she?”
Ronan cast a glance to me, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “She’s my maid.”
I shook my head with a smile.
The girl frowned. “Why she in bed?”
“She’s trying to make the bed, but I refuse to get out, and she’s too weak to move me.”
She giggled at her uncle. “You’re lazy.”
“Lazily handsome.” He winked at her.
The girl turned to me and announced, “Papa can move him.” On second thought, she pursed her lips. “Nevers mind.”
“Why never mind?” Ronan asked with humor. “Does it have something to do with his phone in your hand?”
She glanced at the cell and made a face like she didn’t like the question. “Papa says I can play a princess game if I eat breakfast.”
I smiled. “And I’m assuming you didn’t eat?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like eggs. Or toast. Or porridge. Or—”
“Okay,” Ronan chuckled. “You don’t like food.”
Happy he understood, she nodded, then said quietly, “I might like food after I play new princess game.”
Wow. This little girl was going to rule the world. Not to mention, she appeared to be about three with the vocabulary of a child much older. She would grow up to be a gorgeous female Einstein. Or a criminal mastermind.
She was giving Ronan those big dark eyes that would be impossible for even Hitler to resist.
Ronan chuckled and shook his head. “Okay, kitty Kat, what do you need from me?”
She smiled real big and handed him the phone. “Find game, please. I could do it,” she said haughtily, “but Papa won’t tell me the password.”
“What a tyrant,” Ronan drawled. “What’s the game called?”
“I dunno. It was on commercial after one of Mamma’s kissy shows.”