less changed it.
Once on board the private jet, that had reminded Shona a little too much of that absurdly luxurious hotel suite where she’d created this mess five years ago, Malak had showed her to one of its state rooms with a courtesy she’d found only slightly exaggerated, and had watched her, his dark green eyes glittering with an emotion she’d been afraid to name as she’d laid Miles on the bed. He’d moved closer then, and Shona had held her breath, but all he’d done was stand to the side of the bed and gaze down at the sleeping child.
His son, whom he’d never met.
And Shona had never missed him. She might have wished that things had been different across these last years, but she had never missed Malak, specifically. She had never imagined him and Miles, father and son together, or wasted her time dreaming of happy families. That was one more casualty of her foster-care experiences. She didn’t believe in happy families. She never had. She wasn’t even sure she believed in fathers, come to that, because that line on her birth certificate had been left blank and she’d never met any men deserving of that title during her eighteen years as a ward of the state.
So she had no words for what had washed over her then, like some kind of flash flood. It had been devastating and life-altering, and it had happened too fast. It had been almost too intense to bear. It had been something primal.
There was something about the way Malak had looked down at Miles. Or maybe it had been the simple fact of the three of them in one room—her little boy and both of his parents, for the first time.
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