Chapter 23 #2
“You planning to ask your father?”
I snorted. “Absolutely. If Obiryn thinks he’s escaping a twenty-seven-hour interrogation, he’s got another thing coming.”
A corner of Marcus’s mouth twitched.
“And while we’re at it,” I continued, “I’d also like an explanation for why my son can apparently survive magical growth acceleration, kidnapping, experimental injections, and then sleep through all of it like he had a particularly busy day at preschool.”
Marcus let out a laugh.
“I’m serious,” I said. “At this point, if he wakes up tomorrow and tells me he can bench-press a truck, I won’t even be surprised.”
“He’s my son. Of course he’s strong.” Marcus came over and tugged me to my feet. “Come here, wife.”
Ooooh. There he was. Alpha Marcus. The wereape who could make “sit down and drink your wine” sound less like a suggestion and more like an official decree.
He wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on top of my head. I leaned against him, letting his familiar scent—earthy, musky, and uniquely Marcus—steady me. The knot of tension in my chest finally began to loosen.
His arms tightened around me like he was afraid I might still vanish.
“You know… you’re still wearing that lab coat like a toga.” I laughed.
A slow smile pulled at his lips. “You like it?”
“I do.”
“Good,” he murmured, brushing his lips against my forehead.
I chuckled, but the laugh faded faster than it normally would. My gaze drifted toward the stairs again. Toward Darian’s room.
Marcus felt it. His arms tightened. “You’re thinking about him.”
“Can you blame me?” I asked softly. “Yesterday he looked four. Today he looks ten.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Just sad.
“I keep looking at him,” I admitted. “And part of me is waiting for my brain to catch up. Then another part of me is waiting for him to suddenly grow another ten years.”
Marcus’s expression darkened. “I know.”
“And now what?” I threw my hands in the air. “Seriously. What now? He should be learning his numbers and watching cartoons. Instead, he looks old enough for actual school, with desks and homework and teachers and all the horrible things that come with education.”
A smile tugged at Marcus’s mouth.
“I’m serious.” I pointed upstairs. “The kid was eating muffins yesterday and now he looks like he should be asking for an allowance. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“We have to buy him a bigger bed,” I told him.
“Yes,” said my wereape.
“School supplies.”
Marcus sighed. “Yes. School.”
I stared at him. “Do you realize I completely skipped ten years of worrying about whether my kid remembered to tie his shoes? Addison robbed me of entire categories of parenting. She stole years from us.” My voice softened. “Not just from Darian. From us.”
His smile faded. “I know.”
I looked away, blinking a little too hard.
That was the part that hurt. It was everything we’d missed.
First words, scraped knees, bedtime stories, all the ordinary little moments parents never think to treasure until they're suddenly gone.
Somehow we'd been robbed of years without time actually passing, which felt unnecessarily creative on the universe's part.
Marcus brushed his fingers through my hair. “We still have him.”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah.” The word came out quieter than I'd intended, carrying far more hope than confidence.
“And according to your father, whatever Addison did is over.”
“I know. Yet my brain keeps insisting on imagining ridiculous worst-case scenarios.” My imagination had apparently decided that if reality could invent magically accelerated aging, then absolutely nothing else was off the table.
“Such as?”
I looked at him. “What if he wakes up tomorrow with a mustache?”
Marcus stared at me. “A mustache?”
“I’m just saying… we don’t know the rules.” I felt that was an entirely reasonable position to take considering I'd spent the last twenty-four hours discovering reality had apparently stopped consulting me before rewriting itself.
“Tessa.”
“What if puberty decides to arrive all at once? What if his voice drops another octave overnight? What if I wake up and he’s taller than me?
What if he suddenly starts borrowing my sweaters because they fit him better?
Or worse, starts giving me skincare advice because he's somehow already survived adolescence?”
Marcus was trying not to laugh now. His mouth twitched with the kind of determination usually reserved for people attempting not to sneeze during a wedding ceremony.
“I’m serious.”
“No, you’re catastrophizing.”
“Same thing.” At least lately it felt like the same thing. Catastrophizing had developed a disturbingly impressive track record of becoming tomorrow's reality.
He shook his head. “No. One is reality. The other is you.”
I gasped. “Okay. You’re right.” I hated how quickly I'd reached the acceptance stage when he phrased it like that.
For a second, despite everything, despite Addison and the laboratory and the fear and all the unanswered questions still floating around in my head like magical confetti that refused to settle, I found myself laughing.
It wasn't a perfect laugh, and it didn't make anything better, but it loosened the knot in my chest enough for me to remember I still knew how.
Because Marcus was right. Part of me was terrified.
Part of me was angry. But another part of me was already looking ahead: to Darian’s future, to school, to friends, to birthday parties, to all the normal things Addison hadn’t managed to take from us.
Maybe things wouldn’t look exactly the way I’d imagined.
Maybe my son had reached those milestones faster than either of us wanted.
But he was still here. Still our kid.
Still the little boy who loved muffins and cartoons and somehow managed to sleep through the crazy wereape lady in the lab coat.
I glanced up at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?” My suspicion level was already elevated. In my experience, when Marcus got that look, it usually meant one of two things. Either he was being sweet or he was about to remove my clothing. Occasionally both.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re plotting something.” I narrowed my eyes. “And don’t pretend you don’t know the look. You have a look. Everybody has a look. Beverly has six.”
His expression softened. “Like I’m proud of you,” he said. “You never quit. No matter what gets thrown at you.” His hand brushed my cheek. “Most people would have fallen apart today.”
The unexpected sincerity hit me harder than any compliment. I pointed at him. “That was suspiciously sweet.” My chest squeezed. I’d spent the entire day operating on panic, adrenaline, maternal rage, and approximately zero emotional stability.
A laugh escaped him. “Get used to it.”
Heat spread through my chest. “Oh, you big, unfairly charming beast.” I shook my head. “You can’t just say things like that. I have a reputation to maintain. People expect me to be sarcastic.”
Marcus chuckled again, low and rough. “You were amazing tonight.”
I leaned against him and grinned. “Make sure you remember that tomorrow when I’m reminding everyone how I saved us from Gorilla Barbie 2.0.” I pointed toward the ceiling. “Because let’s be honest, if I don’t tell the story properly, Ronin will somehow make himself the hero.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Your confidence is making a comeback.”
“Damn right it is.” I bumped his hip with mine. “I think I’ve earned cheesecake, a bottle of wine, and at least three days of being told how awesome I am.” Frankly, I felt four days was reasonable. Five if anyone brought up portals.
His smile widened. “Three days?”