"Declan..." Birkoff called softly as he snuggled closer.

Declan kissed his lover’s mouth, then nuzzled his neck affectionately. "What, Kieran?"

"This was a damn good idea you had," Birkoff said, referring to Declan’s decision to take a hotel suite in the city for the weekend.

"Well, it’s not the farmhouse, but..." Declan said with a sensual smile.

"Mmm, no, it’s not the farmhouse...but the bed is huge...and soft and...you’re in it...so I’m happy."

Declan’s silvery eyes glittered. "I like making you happy, baby."

Birkoff gave his lover a glance that could only be described as heated. Biting his lip, he hovered over Declan’s mouth. "I love how you make me happy," he whispered.

Declan’s fingers slid through the gently waving tendrils at the back of Birkoff’s neck, pulling him closer to be kissed again. "I love you..."

Declan claimed his mouth possessively, his fingers continuing to twine restlessly throughout Sey’s hair. The silken texture of his hair matched the soft satin of Sey’s lips, and Declan couldn’t get enough of either one.

Just as Declan rolled his lover onto his back, the phone rang. "Damn!" Declan swore.

"Who knows we’re here?" Birkoff asked, his dark brows meeting in a frown.

"Only Walter." Declan’s eyes suddenly widened. "Christ, it must be the kids. And it has to be an emergency. You know he’d never bother us for less."

Birkoff sat up in bed, his ardor cooling even as he watched Declan pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Sorry to bother you guys, but I just got a weird ass phone call you oughta check out."

"Tell me."

"Whoever it was, I didn’t recognize the voice. He sounded all...I dunno...broken up...almost unintelligible."

Declan sighed. "Anything more helpful?"

Suddenly Declan could almost hear Walter smiling. "Of course. I caught the number off the caller ID. 555-1029. It’s local."

"That’s good."

"Oh, and Declan?"

"Aye?"

He could hear Walter lose his smile. His voice sounded uncharacteristically somber. "I think it’s that new teacher. Number’s registered to a J. Elliott."

"Do you want me to tell Michael?"

"No, no, don’t disturb him. I’ll take care of it."

Declan’s bright silver gaze dimmed as he met his lover’s melted-chocolate eyes. He hung up the phone, his mouth drawn into a thin, tight line. "Sey...something’s happened to James."

Birkoff threw his legs over the side of the bed, instinctively searching for his clothing. "Where is he? How bad is it?"

"I don’t know. Listen...why don’t you stay here while I check this out?"

"I’m going with you."

"Sey...it doesn’t sound like he’s in good shape."

Birkoff pulled his jeans on and fastened the snap. Standing barefoot on the sapphire-colored carpet, he indulged in a brief moment of self-pity at the interruption of his tryst with Declan before putting it right out of his mind.

"All the more reason you need me along."

Declan pulled his shirt over his head, automatically smoothing his unruly curls into a ponytail. Birkoff handed him the leather thong to contain his hair. When they were both finished dressing, Declan pulled Birkoff into his arms for a moment. "You don’t have to do this. We hardly know him."

"I know. But I’d want someone to do it for me. Wouldn’t you?"

Declan kissed him. "What would I do without you?"

"Let’s hope we never have to find out."

***

When they arrived at James’ apartment, the door was partly open. Approaching cautiously, Declan gestured at Birkoff to stay behind him. Nudging the door open wider with the toe of his boot, Declan quickly drew his gun. What he could see of the inside of the apartment looked like a crime scene.

James was lying face down on the floor. The moment he spotted James, Birkoff ran to his side, unintentionally placing himself in the line of fire. If there had been any. Declan cursed at his lover under his breath. "Sey! For Christ’s sake, I could have shot you!"

Birkoff gave him a painfully tight smile. "Sorry. Guess you can tell I’m not all that good in the field."

Declan slid his gun into the back of his jeans. Giving his lover a wink, Declan said, "Let’s just say your talents lie elsewhere."

Together, they rolled James onto his back. Very carefully. They had no way of knowing how badly he was injured. Or where. James moaned in pain, and Birkoff prevented him from trying to get up. "No, no, stay down. Just tell us where it hurts."

James could barely talk. His mouth was cut, but it was his lips that drew Birkoff’s attention. They were so swollen, it was a wonder he had been able to make himself understood at all over the phone. "If I say everywhere, will you think I’m exaggerating?" James asked, trying desperately not to cry.

Declan examined James from head to toe, cataloguing his injuries and triaging them in order of priority. "You’ve got a cut lip that’s relatively insignificant. Your mouth is badly swollen, but some ice should take care of that. Luckily, you didn’t lose any teeth. Your ear looks worse than it really is. It’s bloody, but it’s a good thing you were wearing a stud. It looks as if the post popped open from the pressure. Otherwise, you might have lost part of your earlobe."

James closed his eyes, stifling a sob. Birkoff lay a gentle hand on James’ shoulder. "Who did this to you?"

James opened his eyes, their brilliant blue dulled by pain. "Philo."

Declan traded glances with Birkoff. "Philo who?"

James tried to avert his face, but Birkoff wouldn’t let him turn his head. "Don’t move. You could have other injuries. You were unconscious. You probably have a concussion."

Declan pressed his fingers along James’ body, provoking a strong response over what looked to be James’ fourth rib on the right side. Judging from the sharp gasp of pain James uttered, Declan assumed it was broken. "You’ve really been worked over, boyo. Who is this Philo when he’s at home?"

James’ eyes swirled with distrust, but the pain won out. "He was my lover. He doesn’t take rejection very well."

"I’ll say," Birkoff interjected.

"What happened?"

"It’s a long story," James said wearily.

"Well, you don’t look like you’re going anywhere. Tell us."

***

When James finished telling Declan and Birkoff the entire story, he expected to see...oh, disgust, maybe. Pity, certainly. Frankly, James didn’t feel like he was living up to the accumulated inheritance of his family’s gene pool. He should have seen how dangerous Philo was. He should have known that he wouldn’t be able to keep his secret. It was almost funny. Philo didn’t want him for himself, but he didn’t want anyone else to have him.

"The worst part is...Philo told me all that stuff about David, and I don’t even know if any of it is true. But I believed him." A tear trickled its way down James’ bruised cheek.

"Hey, we all make mistakes," Birkoff said supportively.

Declan looked concerned. "James, you need to go to the hospital."

"No! Please..." James began to cry softly, and Birkoff could see that he was at the end of what seemed to be a very short rope.

Declan glanced at Birkoff. "Sey, take him to Neil."

James began to protest, but Declan overruled him. "Look, you need medical attention, James, whether you like it or not. You might wish you were dead, but it’s not going to happen. At least not now."

"But if I take the car, how are you going to get home, Dec?"

Declan pulled out his gun again, checked the clip, and snapped it together with a sharp click.

"I’m not going home, Sey. I’m going hunting."

James reached for Declan’s arm, uncaring that he was holding a weapon. "Please don’t kill him."

Declan stared at James in disbelief. "Don’t tell me you’re still in love with the creep who did this to you."

James shook his head gingerly and winced at the pain this produced. "No," he said hoarsely. "But I don’t want his death on my conscience, too. I’ve got enough guilt to last a lifetime."

Declan laughed darkly. "Tell me about it."

"How will you know where to find him?" James asked.

"Oh, I’ll find him. How do you suppose he knew what David was doing back in Australia?"

"I don’t know. Even I didn’t know about David...being with someone else." James closed his eyes, and it was apparent to both Declan and Birkoff that whatever feelings James once had for David, the breakup of that all-important relationship continued to affect him. Certainly more than his subsequent relationship with Philo.

"Well, as despicable as he is, Philo must be a well-connected little wanker, if you ask me. He just doesn’t seem like the type to conduct his research using the public library, y’know?" Declan crouched next to James.

"I’ll help you move him into the car, Sey. Then I’m off."

***

James grabbed Birkoff’s hand and held onto it like the lifeline it truly was. "Why are you and Mr. McLaren doing this for me?"

Birkoff looked thoughtful. "You’re not used to being treated particularly well, are you?"

James sighed. "I’m sorry I got you involved in this. But I had no one else to call. No one to trust."

Birkoff smiled kindly. "You do now. You’re part of the family now, and we take care of each other."

***

Declan stalked Philo like a predator in search of prey. When he found him, he was surprised at how easy it was. Philo was less impressed. He took one look at Declan and exclaimed, "Jesus! It’s Ichabod Crane come to life!"

"Is that supposed to be funny, you ill-bred git?"

Philo laughed hysterically. His long dark hair bounced upon his shoulders, and now and then, Declan would catch a glimpse of a thin gold hoop earring hidden beneath his hair. That would do very nicely to start.

Declan shut the door to Philo’s room. The walls were thin. If he screamed loud enough, someone would hear. Maybe even call the police. Declan shrugged. It didn’t matter. Vengeance was at hand. And Declan felt like the instrument of divine justice.

Philo backed up and abruptly stopped laughing. "Who the hell are you? And what the hell do you want?"

Declan circled Philo, knowing that the longer he didn’t speak, the more it unnerved the other man. "Do you know who I am?" Philo growled.

"I know who I think you are. But that’s probably not who *you* think you are, sunshine."

Declan suddenly stopped circling Philo. With one swift movement, he cut off the other man’s air supply by grabbing his throat. Digging his fingers into Philo’s neck, he felt the other man struggle to breathe, growing more and more panic-stricken by the second.

"What do you do, Philo? I’d say you’re a minor player at best. Maybe you run numbers...or on a good day, you deal a little dope. Off a street corner. Is that who you are?"

Declan would have pressed harder, but then it would have been over much too soon. Philo deserved to be tortured. In the exact manner he had tortured James. Besides, James didn’t want him dead, and as much as it would have pleased Declan to kill him outright, he would honor his word to James.

He released Philo’s throat, and Philo began to bark, harsh, staccato coughs that sounded like he would bring up his lungs. "Why are you here?"

Declan pretended to think about the question, then said in a voice, dripping with sarcasm, "Oh, I dunno, Philo, I was admiring your handiwork back at James’s apartment, and I said to myself, I’ve just got to meet the man who did this."

Declan pulled up his gun hand, aiming the gun directly at Philo. Drawing even closer, he placed the gun so that its barrel kissed Philo’s forehead. "You’re prolly wondering how good a shot I am." Declan sneered at Philo. "I figure at this distance, it won’t matter."

Philo didn’t flinch. "What are you, some friend of Jimmy’s he never told me about?"

Declan laughed. "I see a bullet doesn’t scare you. Good." Declan put the gun away, hiding it in the waistband of his jeans for quick retrieval. He didn’t trust Philo as far as he could throw him.

Declan’s face sobered. "No, I’m not his friend. I don’t know him well enough to call him that. But I know you. I’ve known people like you all my freaking life."

Casting a suspicious eye at Philo, who despite his bravado was beginning to shake visibly now, Declan pounced. "Judging from what you did to James, I’d say you must enjoy pain. Let me introduce you to a whole new level."

Philo couldn’t run fast enough. He made it as far as his bathroom before Declan caught him and threw him against the wall. His head snapped backwards and hit the wall, leaving a smudge mark as he slid down to the floor. As he lost consciousness, the last words he heard were Declan’s, "I’m making a list and checking it twice..."

Declan waited patiently for Philo to regain consciousness before he touched him again. "That was for the concussion you gave James. I hope you’re keeping track. I am."

"I want you to be awake for this one, though. It was really inspired, you grabbing his earring like that. Too bad it was a stud. The post popped off and didn’t do nearly as much damage as you thought it would."

Philo started to quiver in anticipation. "Shit, no. You’ll rip my freaking ear off."

Declan blinked slowly. "Let’s see."

Declan reached for the thin gold hoop earring in Philo’s left ear and tugged. Philo began to howl, and Declan hadn’t even done anything yet. Declan grasped the earring between two fingers on his right hand and drew back his left hand ominously.

Punching Philo with his left hand, Declan watched Philo’s head fly back, forcing the earring to rip through the tender flesh of his earlobe. When his head snapped back, Philo’s ear was in tatters, his earlobe literally bisected by the sharp, thin earring.

As for the punch, it did considerable damage as well. Declan’s left hand bore the sterling silver Claddagh ring, and it left its imprint across Philo’s once-handsome face. It tore open his upper lip, leaving a distinctive mark that would probably always be there. Every time he looked into a mirror. For a vain man, who valued his good looks, it was the perfect punishment.

"Oh, and as long as we’re counting everything you did to James...you broke his rib, too. You could have punctured a lung and killed him. But I don’t suppose you really cared." Declan walked away from Philo, and for one brief moment, Philo thought it was over. He was wrong.

Declan judged his distance accurately, aiming a flying sidekick at Philo’s chest, splintering more than one rib. Philo collapsed in a heap of broken flesh. Declan strode back to where he lay, to contemplate what he’d done. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. But his anger was spent. He couldn’t do any more. It would be too cold-blooded. And that, he feared, would make him just as bad as Philo.

Declan stood in the doorway, his dark shape somehow more menacing than anything Philo could have imagined. "One more thing. You forget James. You lose his address. You don’t know he even exists on the same planet as you do. Or I will come back and remind you of what went down here."

"My name is Declan."

"Remember it."

Birkoff knew the exact moment when Declan entered the house. He smiled at James. "You won’t have to worry about Philo anymore."

"You don’t know him," James said, more than a little fearful.

"You don’t know Declan," Birkoff countered. "When Declan says he’ll take care of something, you can consider it done."

Declan swept into Neil’s exam room with a flourish. Removing his leather gloves, he studied James. Apparently satisfied that James was indeed receiving medical attention for his injuries, Declan then focused on Birkoff. Brushing the lightest of kisses across his lover’s mouth, Declan said, "Hi, baby. Did you miss me?"

Birkoff’s dark chocolate eyes softened as they lit upon Declan’s face. "Of course."

Indicating James, Birkoff then said, "Neil said he’s going to be pretty well incapacitated for at least a couple of weeks."

Declan frowned. "You’ll need help, James. You won’t be able to take care of yourself."

"Oh, no, I couldn’t ask either of you to help me any further, Mr. McLaren. That wouldn’t be fair. I’ve imposed enough as it is." James struggled to a sitting position, but the effort clearly cost him. Pale and sweaty, James was on the verge of passing out. Pain, both emotional and physical, threatened to overtake him, and he was fresh out of coping strategies.

"In the first place, call me Declan. I think we’ve been through enough with you to be on a first-name basis now, don’t you? In the second place, you’re too weak to get off the examination table. How do you suppose you’ll manage getting undressed, much less anything else?"

Birkoff turned to Declan, clearly set on helping James as best he could. "He could stay here till he’s well enough to go home, couldn’t he, Dec?"

"I’ll ask Neil, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind."

James was too tired to argue with them. It didn’t sit well with him, accepting help from others, but he had no choice. He would make it up to them one day.

***

Declan hooked an arm possessively around Birkoff’s shoulder as they walked back to their own house. Pressing a kiss to Birkoff’s hair, Declan said, "I wouldn’t feel right going back to the hotel after what happened. I hope you understand."

Birkoff kissed Declan’s mouth tenderly. "That’s why I love you."

***

Declan pulled his T-shirt over his head and threw it on the bed. He kicked off his boots and padded into the bathroom in his sock feet. Birkoff lay on his stomach on their bed, watching him. Every muscle moving gracefully, elegantly. Declan was so beautiful. And he was still his. To have and to hold. To love and to cherish. For all time.

When Declan came out of the bathroom, he was completely naked. Kneeling on the bed, he showed his left hand to Birkoff. "Look at my hand, Sey."

The knuckles of Declan’s left hand were bruised, his ring finger somewhat swollen. Birkoff examined the hand carefully, paying particular attention to Declan’s ring finger. "You get this hitting that jerk?"

Declan nodded wordlessly. Birkoff stroked Declan’s hand with his fingertips, and Declan sighed, aroused by his lover’s slightest touch. Trembling, Declan asked in a whisper, "Kiss it and make it better?"

Birkoff’s candy-colored eyes grew hot yet tender at the same time. He bent his head to the back of Declan’s hand and kissed it. Laving the knuckles with the tip of his tongue, he slowly took the swollen finger into his mouth. Sucking gently on Declan’s finger, he continued to hold and caress the rest of his hand. Slipping Declan’s finger out of his mouth, he slid its wet length along the side of his face.

Declan closed his eyes. "You’re making me hard," he whispered with a faint smile.

Birkoff licked the palm of Declan’s hand. "Come to bed, and I’ll make the...rest of you...feel better, too."

Declan rolled his lover onto his back. "Now then, where did we leave off?"

Birkoff giggled. "I forget. Let’s start over."

Michael’s breath made stark white puffs in the frosty night air as he picked up another armful of wood for the fireplace. He trod upstairs with the load of wood and surveyed the bedroom, now lit only by firelight. Nikita lay on her stomach on the bed, staring dreamy-eyed at the fire. When she heard his step, she turned to face him, her entire body seemingly alight with flickering reflections of the flames. "Michael...except for the chateau...I think this is my favorite place in the whole world."

"Me, too."

He dropped the split logs into the woodbin next to the hearth. Bending over, he stirred the fire with the metal poker, then carefully replaced the screen. Nikita liked to sit or sleep next to the fire, and Michael was always afraid that a spark would fly out and singe her beautiful skin or hair.

He shrugged out of his leather jacket, arranging it tidily on the back of a chair. Undressing slowly, he was very much aware of Nikita’s warm blue eyes upon him. "What?" he finally asked, wondering why she was looking at him as if she had never seen his body before.

"Can’t a girl admire how beautiful her husband is?"

He smiled and shook his head, always slightly disconcerted when she referred to him that way. "I’m not...beautiful."

"You are...to me."

He continued to undress, eventually standing before her, as naked as the day he was born. "You’re the one who’s beautiful," he whispered, never more certain of anything in his life.

Hed sat down on the bed, within reach of that satin-smooth skin, and his fingers traced their way along the line of her back. Her shoulders rose like alabaster, falling as she pillowed her head on her arms, peering up at Michael. "You always make me feel that way," she whispered back.

Leaning over her, he pulled her hair off her neck, exposing that delicate skin for his mouth. He moved so slowly, Nikita ached all over from anticipation. When his lips touched her nape, she caught her breath in a tiny gasp. Threading his fingers through her hair, he pulled a long, pale strand behind her ear and kissed her ear. His touch was so soft, so gentle. As if she were his own undiscovered treasure...and he would take his time learning what riches were contained within.

When she would have rolled over onto her back, Michael stopped her with a gentle hand. Placing both hands on her shoulders, he rubbed and kneaded her skin until it flushed a pale rose color. She groaned and fell back onto her pillowed hands. "Mmm...are you trying to put me to sleep?"

He leaned down and kissed her shoulder. A moment later, his teeth nipped at the same place, provoking a sharp ache in her lower body. "No," he whispered.

She smiled mysteriously, as if she knew she held all his secrets deep within, but only he had the key to release them. He brushed her back with his teeth, causing a wave of sensation to crest over her entire body, pooling in her groin. Bit by bit, he edged closer to her, tantalizing her with agonizingly brief contact with his own body.

Finally succumbing to the fervent desire to possess her one more time, Michael gently lowered himself atop her back, his hands reaching around to cup her breasts. She arched within his embrace, and he kissed her nape again, his lips clinging this time. He licked the spot he had kissed, and his arousal hardened against her lower back.

His arousal nudging the cleft between her buttocks, he rocked teasingly against her, his hands slowly moving down her body to rest on her hips. Shifting lower, he pressed a kiss to one cheek, his hands finding the heart of her. With a loud moan, Nikita spread her legs, opening her center to his continued exploration. His fingers crept inside her, finding her warm and wet...and more than ready.

Her fingers tightened on the sheets as he touched her. "Please...."

With a shudder, Michael joined their bodies, guiding himself carefully inside. It felt like they were one person. An extension of each other. He slid his hands under her, holding her in place for his sensual assault. Slowly stroking her, his fingers parting the curling tendrils that protected her femininity, he could feel his own arousal, lightly battering at that door, sliding past her last defenses.

"Ohh..." she groaned, her climax imminent.

He cupped his hands under her, making each new contact between them that much deeper, that much harder. She was so wet, he slipped in and out of her depths more and more quickly. More and more erratically.

"Michael!" she cried out, her body tightening before it could completely unravel. Her spasms took him over the edge, out into space, out into freefall. He spilled himself within her with a harsh sob.

He was safe.

She was his.

"Mine," he whispered possessively, as they drifted off to sleep, their bodies still entwined.

"Mine," she echoed sleepily, pulling his arms around her breasts.

His arms slid lower, seemingly of their own volition, coming to rest upon her abdomen. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his lips nuzzling her ear.

"Ours," he breathed.

She smiled in her sleep.

Michael sat on the floor, the carpet soft and warm under his legs. He leaned back against the bed, facing the fire, staring into the flames. Nikita lay in his embrace, her back against his chest. Content just to dream, they found little need for speech.

Finally Nikita broke the silence. "I know I said I didn’t want anyone else to know I’m pregnant, Michael, but..." He grazed her silken hair with his lips. "You’ve changed your mind?"

Suddenly her reflective mood was interrupted by a brilliant smile. "This is going to be a special baby, Michael. I can feel it."

"Special?" He smiled affectionately at her choice of words. "All our babies are special, doucette. All of them so beautiful, like their mother."

"Michael," she chuckled. He was doing it again. Being charming. Without even being aware of it. This was not something she could attribute to Michael’s training as a Valentine Op. He seldom used that. Even in the bedroom. It was as if he knew it would alter their lovemaking somehow. Make it less...genuine.

"I think..." she drawled out. He waited expectantly. She glanced at Michael, her blue eyes warm and sparkling, like fine champagne, or perhaps it was simply that a few errant stars tired of the heavens and fell to Earth, only to be born again in those twinkling depths.

"Yes?"

"I think...we’re going to have a son this time," she said uncertainly, watching for his reaction. Had enough time passed to dull that long ago ache? The joy he took in Chris was so evident every day, in every way. Would he be able to accept another son? Another child who would always remind him of the son he’d lost? Another son who could never replace the hole in his heart?

He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her tighter. "Chris will love being a big brother," he whispered into her hair.

"Yes," she agreed. Turning to face Michael, she stared deeply into those changeable grey-green eyes she loved so much. "And will you love being his father?" she asked, her heart in her eyes.

He returned her gaze, evenly and just as heartfelt. "I love you, doucette, and any child you give me."

"Oh, Michael..." she said, flinging her arms around his neck. He closed his eyes and let her cling to him. The tears that were never very far away these days in her eyes, she buried her face in the hollow of his neck.

He didn’t say it to make her happy. He really meant it. He loved when she was pregnant, knowing their child was growing inside her, under her heart. Whatever God chose to give them would be just. Michael used to think that God owed him and Nikita, for all of the pain and all of the obstacles He’d placed in their way.

But now he thought that instead of breaking them, it had made them stronger. Instead of breaking, they had learned to bend. And it was this resilience that kept them alive during missions no one else could have survived. And it was this resilience that now gave them the ability to overcome whatever hardship still lay in store for them.

Their newfound freedom made this pregnancy special. The first child of theirs to be born out from under the everpresent shadow of Section. Michael kissed the side of her face, then lay his chin on her shoulder. He could feel her skin growing warm from the fire. She sighed, more from contentment than from fatigue.

"Tired?" he asked solicitously.

"Drowsy," she said, enjoying the sensation of time slowing down as she remained cradled in Michael’s arms.

"I’d like to stay here with you forever, Michael."

He smiled against her shoulder, his lips brushing her skin lovingly. "Have you given any thought to names for the baby?"

"What was that first one you vetoed, all those years ago?" she asked, turning her face to his so she could see his eyes. She reached up with her fingers and stroked his cheek, beckoning him closer still.

"Aubergine," Michael said softly, kissing her mouth tenderly.

Startled, she opened her mouth on a gasp, and he captured her mouth again, this time more intimately. "You remember!" she cried.

"I remember everything, doucette. The way you wanted to paint the bedroom mauve." He smiled, lost in nostalgia for their not so distant past, and it lit up his face from within.

His smile dimmed slightly. He began running his fingertips through her bangs, as if he needed to touch her. "The way I wanted you all to myself..." he whispered. He dropped his gaze, rubbing his cheek against her shoulder.

"I was so selfish then," he continued. She grasped his hand in hers and kissed each and every finger. "Not selfish, Michael. Possessive. And you learned to share," she whispered.

Michael grew thoughtful. "And our family grew."

"It’s getting bigger all the time," she said, reminding him of the baby resting beneath her heart.

"So...what do you want to call him?"

She noticed immediately that Michael referred to the baby as him. In both their heads and their hearts, they thought their next child would surely be a boy.

"Hmm...Michael?"

"Yes?"

"No, silly, I meant, the baby. Michael."

He shook his head vehemently. "Every child should have his own name, doucette."

She snuggled closer, pressing the side of her face against his chest, where she could listen to his heartbeat. So strong. So hypnotic. "Mmm...we’ll sleep on it, love."

And when Michael looked down...she was.

His bright angel. Caught by the firelight. Sleeping.