Father Mine by J. R. Ward Page A

said.

EIGHT
    As Zsadist breached the doorway of the nursery, he actually double-checked to make sure his shirt was properly tucked into his leathers. Man, he loved the smell of the room. Lemon-scented innocence was what he called it in his mind. Sweet like a flower, but not cloying. Clean.
    Bella squeezed his hand and led him over to the crib. Surrounded by satin bows that were bigger than she was, Nalla was curled up on her side, her arms and legs tucked in tight, her eyes shut hard as if she were working really, really, really diligently at being asleep.
    The instant Z looked over the lip of the crib, she stirred. Made a little noise. In her sleep her hand reached out, not toward her mother, but to him.
    â€œWhat does she want?” he asked like an idiot.
    â€œShe wants you to touch her.” When he didn’t move, Bella murmured, “She does this in her sleep . . . she seems to know who’s around and she likes a little pat.”
    To his shellan ’s absolute credit, she didn’t force him to do anything.
    But Nalla wasn’t happy. Her little hand and arm strained for him.
    Z wiped his palm on the front of his shirt, then rubbed it up and down a couple of times on his hip. As he reached forward, his fingers trembled.
    Nalla made the connection. His daughter took his thumb and held it with such strength he felt a spear of pure, undiluted pride shoot through his chest.
    â€œShe’s strong,” he pronounced, his approval positively dripping off the words.
    Bella made a little noise beside him.
    â€œNalla?” he whispered as he bent down. His daughter pursed her little lips and held on even stronger.
    â€œI can’t believe that grip of hers.” He let his forefinger brush lightly on his daughter’s wrist. “Soft . . . oh, my God, she’s so soft—”
    Nalla’s eyes flipped open. And as he looked into a stare the exact golden color of his own, his heart stopped. “Hi . . .”
    Nalla blinked and waved his finger and transformed him: Everything stopped as she moved not just his hand, but his heart.
    â€œYou’re like your mahmen, ” he whispered. “You make the world go away for me. . . .”
    Nalla kept wagging his hand and let out a coo.
    â€œI can’t believe her grip. . . .” He glanced up at Bella. “She’s so—”
    Tears were streaming down Bella’s face, and her arms were locked around her chest as if she were trying not to shatter apart.
    His heart moved again, but for a different reason.
    â€œCome here, nalla, ” he said, reaching out to his shellan, tucking her in against him with his free hand. “Come here to your male.”
    Bella buried her face into his chest and her palm found his.
    As Z stood there, with a hold on both his daughter and his mate, he felt eight thousand feet tall, and faster than his Carrera and stronger than an army.
    His chest swelled with renewed purpose. They were both his, these two. His and his alone, and he had to take care of them. One was his heart and the other a piece of himself, and they completed him by filling voids he didn’t know he had.
    Nalla looked up at her parents and the most adorable sound came out of her button mouth, a kind of, Well, isn’t this lovely, the way things have sorted out.
    But then his daughter reached up with her other hand . . . and touched the slave band on his wrist.
    Z stiffened. He couldn’t help it.
    â€œShe doesn’t know what they are,” Bella said softly.
    He took a hard breath. “She will. Someday she will know exactly what they are.”
    Â 
    Before Z went down to see Doc Jane, he spent more time with his ladies. He ordered some food for Bella, and while it was being prepared he watched for the first time as his daughter was fed. Nalla zonked right out afterward, which was perfect timing, as Fritz arrived with the food. Z fed his shellan from his own hand, taking special satisfaction in choosing