The following day, after clearing out the last boxes, Valencia showed him the baby pictures she had found. She laughed as he plucked the worst one from her hand . . . the moment just after Alaric was born, when she looked absolutely wrecked.
“I look terrible. Give it back,” she protested, laughing and trying to snatch the photo from him. But he kept it just out of reach, eyes fixed on it with quiet intensity. “I wish I could’ve been there . . . for all of it,” he said softly. “I’m sorry,” she told him honestly. “What do you have to be sorry for?” He asked, finally handing the picture back.
“I kept your pup from you.” Her voice was barely above a whisper as she stacked the photos together again. Maximus shook his head. “You did what you thought was best.” His voice dropped lower. “Hones
