Page 70 of Hush, Little Baby

I pick up the fuzzy pale-yellow duck, straightening the white satin ribbon around its neck. It’s not too big, but not small either—perfect for Charlie to wrap his arms around.

I bring the duck over to the crib, tucking it up beside him, careful not to jostle the blanket out of his hands. For a moment, Charlie doesn’t react, but then he shifts just enough to press his cheek against the soft, synthetic fuzz. That little movement snakes straight up through my ribcage and clutches at something vital inside me—something old, relentless, and, for the first time in decades, almost at peace.

I want to stay. I want to anchor myself here on the floor and watch him sleep, counting each breath.

But Constantine and my staff will come hunting for me, and my phone is already vibrating in my pocket, relentless as a toothache. So I draw the blackout curtains over the windows, softening the daylight to a mild, pillowy gray, then step out and close the door behind me, leaving it open half a click in case he wakes and panics.

Constantine is sprawled in the chair by the upper gallery, legs crossed, phone to his ear. He looks up as I come out, ends his call, and arches an eyebrow. “He’s still alive, I trust?”

I nod, rolling my shoulder to work out a tension knot that just set in. “He thinks he’s dead. Or dreaming.”

“Not the worst reaction.” Constantine tucks his phone away and stands, smoothing his cuffs. “You did well, Niko. I think he might actually survive you.”

“He’ll do better than survive,” I mutter.

Constantine’s gaze slides toward the nursery door, and I know without asking that he’s read every line on my face. I wait for the sting of his wit, but instead, he just gives me a slow, sympathetic nod and heads for the stairs.

I follow, because I have nowhere else to go right now. I don’t want to stray far from Charlie, but I know he needs quiet. The urge to hover is new to me and disturbing in its own way. I crush it down, turning away from the door before I undo all the careful work I’ve just done.

We descend to the main floor, where the penthouse is humming with activity. Elise is in the kitchen, which is semi-open to the rest of the living space. The air is thick with the scent of fresh bread and roasting tomato.

Marta soon appears, arms already crossed, spotting us immediately. “Are you having the doctor see him today?” she asks in a voice that says: I am not here for your bullshit.

“Hopefully,” I say, and when she makes a face, I ask, “What?”

She drops her gaze, mouth tight. “May I make a suggestion?”

I huff out a short laugh. “When do you ever ask first?”

Marta plants both hands on the edge of the marble island and fixes me with a look that’s all iron. “He doesn’t need a doctor today. He needs to rest.”

I scowl, already anticipating the argument, but Constantine lifts one brow at her, so she continues, “He’s been here less than an hour. Let him rest today, then see how he is in the morning. If he’s still unwell, then call for the doctor.”

“You don’t understand,” I grunt. “He won’t be better in the morning. He’s sick, and he needs help.”

She shakes her head. “What’s wrong with him? How long has he been sick for?”

“I… don’t know. A long time. I should have the doctor examine him now,” I insist, hating the way my voice edges up, almost pleading. “We don’t know what could be wrong—”

Marta pauses and sighs. “So it’s something chronic?”

“Yes, so can you try and understand—”

She interrupts me with a shush. “If he’s been dealing with this for years, you can wait one more day. He’s already flown across the country. I think that’s more than enough stress for the day.”

My mouth opens again, but Constantine shoots me a look; the message is clear. You lost this one. Take the L.

I exhale roughly, hands wide, palms up. “Fine. Send the doctor home.”

Marta nods, a quick bob like a general marking a minor victory, and turns on her heel, walking off in the direction of the den.

Elise, who has been lurking at the periphery, pokes her head in from the kitchen archway. “Would he like something light when he wakes up?” she asks in a voice so careful I had to remind myself she wasn’t trying to set me off, just tiptoe around the emotional blast radius.

I sigh, but nod at her. “Yes, please. Thank you, Elise.”

Elise’s smile is faint but genuine. “We have some broth left from yesterday. I’ll make toast points.”

I look at her closer and see the nervousness radiating from her. I almost thank her a second time, but the words stick to the back of my tongue like burrs. Instead, I grunt something that might pass as gratitude, and after a brief, anxious bob of her head, she vanishes back into the kitchen.