Nash’s pov
I sat on a wooden bench near the fireplace, my broad frame hunched forward, my palms pressed flat against my knees. My leather gloves were gone, my hands shaking violently as I stared down at the rustic pine floorboards.
My back throbbed with a dull, phantom ache, but my chest felt completely hollowed out, as if an iron blade had been driven through my ribs and twisted.
Harley was my daughter.
The stubborn, bright six-year-old girl who had demanded two silver coins for a jar of willow salve... the little girl who had slammed her tiny fist against my boot to protect Ted... was my own blood.
Six years. I had missed six years of her life. I hadn't held her when she took her first steps. I hadn't heard her first words. I hadn't been there to tuck her into bed or buy her birthda
