Chapter 7
My limbs weigh a thousand pounds each as my alarm clock drags me from sleep. The sheets stick to my skin, damp with night sweat, and my lower back throbs with a dull ache that radiates down my thighs.
I probe the tender spots on my hips, finding bruises in the shape of hands. The soreness at the base of my spine burns with each shift of my body, confirming how very much last night wasn’t a dream.
I sit up, wincing as my abused muscles protest. The faint light filtering through my blinds casts the room in a pale glow, out of sync with the darkness I usually wake in. I check my phone. Eight-seventeen. I should have been up hours ago.
For a moment, panic takes hold before I remember I took the week off from work, and Lena won’t be returning to school until Monday.
My brain replays last night’s final moments. Coming home. Slipping through the door. Checking on Lena. Relief flooded me when the ugly Mark was gone from her nape without a trace. No fever. No chills. No vomiting from a broken bond. I killed Danny before it had time to change her neural pathways.
Lena’s laugh slips beneath my bedroom door, familiar as my own heartbeat, and it brings a smile to my lips. I can’t remember the last time I heard my baby sister laugh. Another laugh joins it, the deeper rumble sending a jolt of awareness through my body.
Rowan.
In my kitchen.
With my sister.
I roll out of bed in a flash, my bare feet silent on the thin carpet as I pull on sweatpants. No time for a shirt as I bolt out of my room and into the hallway. Light spills from the kitchen, and my mouth waters at the scent of coffee and bacon, both items we haven’t been able to afford in months.
I pause at the corner where the hall opens to the living room, steadying myself on the wall, my fingers spreading over the cheap paint and grounding me in its uneven texture.
Control. I need control.
“…so I didn’t realize at first,” Lena is saying. “I thought he’d finally accepted how ugly his jacket was.”
Rowan rumbles with amusement. “I doubt that.”
I remember the jacket she means. It was the last warm one I’ve owned.
“He started wearing this awful hoodie instead,” my traitor of a sister continues. “Every day. Middle of winter. I asked him if he was cold, and he told me no, as if denying it settled everything.”
There’s a pause filled by the quiet clink of ceramic.
“I saw one of the neighborhood kids wearing it one day,” she reveals. “I knew it was Ash’s because he used to be obsessed with skulls, and it had all these patches on the arm. I’m not sure if he sold it or if someone stole it.”
My fingers curl into my palm while Lena keeps talking, unaware she’s peeling me open.
“A few days later, the jacket was hanging on the back of my chair, all the skulls replaced with rainbows, and he pretended it was a different jacket.” She laughs again, this one quieter. “That’s the kind of guy he is.”
Rowan’s response comes too softly for me to catch, and Lena laughs again.
“Yeah, he decides something is his responsibility and never talks about it again,” she says. “He’s been like that forever. Even when he ran away, he never left me.”
My chest tightens with unwelcome memories of the home we grew up in.
I round the corner, schooling myself into neutrality, though my heart slams against my ribs with bruising force. The scene before me doesn’t belong to my life, like it’s stolen from someone else’s and forced into my safe space.
Rowan stands at my stove, spatula in hand, flipping bacon in an unfamiliar cast-iron pan.
His broad back stretches a dark blue Henley, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with muscle.
He navigates my kitchen with effortless familiarity, reaching for things without searching, as if he’s already mapped the space.
Lena sits at our small table, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing the oversized T-shirt and leggings she sleeps in. Her cheeks flush pink with health and no trace of the pallor that has haunted her all week. A mug of coffee steams between her hands.
Beside Rowan, the counter holds eggs, a loaf of bread I didn’t buy, and orange juice, absent from our refrigerator last night.
Morning light filters through the angled blinds over the sink, catching dust motes that dance in the air and highlighting the worn edges of our cheap furniture.
It’s wrong. All of it. Wrong and impossible and a violation of every boundary I’ve ever set.
“Morning, precious.” Rowan doesn’t turn from the stove, but the corner of his mouth quirks up. “Coffee’s fresh.”
Lena brightens when she notices me, her smile unwavering. “Ash! You never sleep this late. You should have told me you were going to have a guest stay over.”
The muscle in my jaw ticks, but I don’t give away the lie.
“I was surprised when I woke up to find him in the kitchen. Good surprised,” she rushes to add. “You never bring anyone home. I was starting to think you didn’t have any friends.”
“Rowan and I met during a job.” Acting calm, I cross to the coffee pot, and as I pull out a mug from the cabinet closest to Rowan, I hiss, “How did you get in?”
Rowan’s nostrils flare to take in my scent as he slides bacon onto a paper towel-lined plate with practiced ease. “Through the front door, precious. Aren’t you happy to see me?”
The coffee burns my tongue as I gulp it down, but the pain grounds me, giving me focus. I turn to lean on the counter, cataloging the front room, and spot the doorstop leaning near the coatrack.
Had I forgotten to place it under the handle when I got home last night? I had been disoriented, but was I careless?
“You haven’t had a day off in forever. Rowan suggested we let you sleep,” Lena continues, oblivious to the tension humming between the Alpha and me. “He said you guys met at your work?”
The lie settles in the air between us, and Rowan raises an eyebrow at me over the sizzling pan, challenging me to correct it.
“He was telling me about this restaurant where he can introduce me to the owner,” Lena says with a thread of excitement. “They need servers, and the tips are amazing. He said he could put in a word for me.”
My mug freezes halfway to my lips. “You have school.”
“For after school,” she clarifies, rolling her eyes. “A few shifts a week. We could use the money, right?”
My throat closes around an answer. She’s right. We need the money. But the idea of Lena working where Rowan has connections sends panic coursing through me.
“Eggs are almost ready,” Rowan announces, cracking three into the bacon grease with a practiced flick of his wrist. “How do you take yours, Ash?”
The normalcy of the question in this abnormal situation throws me off balance. I swallow hard, forcing myself to remain calm while my brain races through scenarios, calculating risks and mapping escape routes.
“Over easy,” I answer, buying time while I figure out what game he’s playing.
What does he want from me? From us?
Because no one ever offers help without expecting payment.
As we eat, Lena fills the silence with chatter, and Rowan proves to be a skilled conversationalist as he steers her questions back onto herself while revealing nothing personal about himself.
I keep my body angled toward her, creating a barrier between her and Rowan with my bare shoulders. The eggs sit heavy in my stomach, rich with bacon grease, and seasoned with pepper.
“This calculus assignment is kicking my butt,” Lena sighs, pushing eggs around her plate. “Ms. Chen wants us to understand derivatives through geometric applications, but the textbook examples are—”
The distant wail of sirens cut through her words, growing louder as they approach our block. I track the sound, gauging distance, direction, and speed. Not ambulances or fire trucks, but police cruisers, moving fast toward the south side of Brickwell.
My muscles coil tight, fork suspended mid-bite as I listen. Rowan’s attention cuts toward me, catching my reaction before shifting to the window. His back straightens, head tilting as he splits his focus between our conversation and the approaching sound.
Lena continues talking without pause, as if the sirens are no more notable than birds chirping or traffic passing. “Anyway, the textbook examples are way more advanced than what she’s teaching, but she wants us to reference them, which makes no sense…”
The sirens fade as they pass our building, diminishing until they blend with the backdrop of city noise. My hand resumes its path, delivering eggs to my mouth, though I’ve lost my appetite.
“I could help,” Rowan says, leaning forward with his forearms on the table. “Calculus was my best subject.”
Lena brightens, her shoulders relaxing. “That would be amazing! Ash tries, but he’s more of a practical math person.”
“Practical math has kept a roof over our heads,” I remind her.
“Yeah.” Her fingers trace patterns on her cup. “I only meant—”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what Ash excels at,” Rowan interrupts, smooth as warm honey. “Practical application of theoretical concepts. Finding solutions others might miss.”
His approval sends an involuntary flush creeping up my neck. I hate how my body responds to him, how my skin heats under his stare.
“Did you go to college?” Lena asks Rowan, her curiosity piqued.
“Took some classes that interested me, but I wasn’t in the market for a degree.” Rowan leans back in his chair, stretching his legs beneath the table, his foot brushing mine in a contact that could be accidental, but isn’t. “I already had a solid job I liked, so there wasn’t much point.”
I move my foot away, but his follows, ankle hooking around mine in a gesture too deliberate to mistake. The simple contact sends heat spiraling through me, unwanted but impossible to ignore.
Another siren cuts through the air, this one louder and closer than the first.
Rowan pauses mid-sentence, his head turning toward the window as he focuses on the sound. His ankle releases mine as his attention shifts to the approaching wail.