Page 94 of Striker’s Rebel

Her eyebrows lift.

“No?”

“I’ve got her.”

A smile pulls at her mouth.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

I carry our daughter down the hall and lower her into the crib. She shifts once, little fist curling beside her face, then settles.

I stay there looking at her.

Can’t help it.

Six months later and there are still moments when it hits me out of nowhere.

My daughter.

My blood.

My family.

I spent most of my life thinking those things belonged to other men.

I switch on the baby monitor, close her door, and take the receiver with me back to the kitchen.

June is leaning against the counter when I walk in.

She watches me.

“What?”

“You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Stand over her crib like you’re guarding Fort Knox.”

“She’s more important.”

The teasing leaves her face.

I come to her and hook a hand around the back of her neck.

“Nobody gets near my girls.”

“I know.”

Good.

I kiss her forehead.

Her fingers curl into my shirt.

“You happy?”