Chapter 19
The bedroom door opens, and Rowan appears with a tray balanced in his hands. The rich aroma of bacon and coffee fills the air, and my stomach clenches with hunger I hadn’t paid attention to.
“Morning, precious.” His bare feet pad across the plush carpet as he approaches. “Thought you might need sustenance.”
I push myself into a sitting position, wincing as muscles pull in places that remind me of how thoroughly I was taken. The sheet falls to my waist, exposing the constellation of marks across my chest and shoulders.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I rasp, throat raw from sounds I only half-remember.
Rowan sets the tray across my lap. The porcelain plate holds fluffy scrambled eggs, bacon cooked to perfect crispness, toast with real butter melting into each slice, and fresh berries glistening with moisture.
I’ve come a long way from rice and beans for breakfast and skipped meals between jobs.
“Let me take care of you.” His fingers brush through my tangled hair, tucking a strand behind my ear.
I should resist. Should remind him that I can feed myself. I only had my Heat. It didn’t turn me into an invalid. I’ve functioned at peak condition under far worse conditions. But Rowan wants to spoil me, and since we’re alone with no one around to witness the weakness, I let him.
Rowan sits on the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, and lifts a forkful of eggs to my lips. “Open.”
The eggs melt in my mouth, seasoned to perfection, and a small sound of pure pleasure escapes me.
“Good?” His thumb traces my bottom lip, catching a crumb.
I respond by opening my mouth for another bite.
Rowan alternates between feeding me and sipping from the coffee mug he brought for himself.
The berries burst with sweetness, the bacon offers salt and smoke, and the toast provides substance.
My body accepts each offering, replenishing strength that has been depleted by days of Heat-driven madness.
Between bites, I study Rowan’s profile. His amber eyes catch the morning light, turning almost gold, and the stubble along his jaw has grown thicker, almost a beard now after days without shaving.
It suits him.
“How did you come to own the Blue Note?” The question rises unprompted.
Rowan pauses, fork suspended between the plate and my mouth. “You want to learn more about me?”
I purse my lips in annoyance at how pleased he appears by my question. “I asked, didn’t I?”
“So you did. And it only took you three months to do it.”
“If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.” I accept the bite he offers, the sweetness of berries filling my mouth.
His lips curve upward. “No, I do. I’m glad you’re curious about the rest of me.”
He sets the fork down as he considers where to start. “My father’s friend owned it before me. Victor Sullivan. He took me in after juvie when my family died.”
“You were in juvenile detention?” I’ve always understood Rowan operates in gray areas, but this detail surprises me.
“Two and a half years.” His fingers trace patterns on the sheet beside my leg. “Started at fourteen. Armed robbery. I was angry, stupid, and running with the wrong crowd after my mother died. It wouldn’t have been so long, but one of the other guys shot the owner.”
I can picture a younger Rowan, rage and grief channeled into violence, too smart for his own good.
“Victor visited me inside. He was a friend of my father’s from the old neighborhood.” Rowan lifts the mug to his lips, throat working. “When I got out, my father was gone, too. Cancer. Victor gave me a place to stay and a job at the bar. He taught me how the business worked. Both kinds.”
I think of the Blue Note with its front-room respectability and back-room operations. The perfect blend of legitimate enterprise and underground connections.
“Victor had no children,” Rowan continues. “When he died eight years ago, he left me the Blue Note. Said I was the son he never had.”
The words carry affection for the man I’ve never met, and I find myself envious of him. Rowan had someone to watch out for him, even after the charge that sent him to juvie.
“Saint came from juvie, too,” Rowan says, offering me coffee now. “I met him during my second year inside. He protected the smaller kids, including me, before I grew into my size. When I got the Blue Note, he was my first hire.”
The mug warms my palms, steam rising to caress my face. I sip from the rim, the bitter liquid cutting through the sweetness.
“Orien was from my old neighborhood,” Rowan continues, absently tracing one of the marks he left on my collarbone. “Quiet kid, always watching, cataloging everything. His mother cleaned houses for rich people in Skyhaven. She died when he was fifteen. He learned how to make problems disappear.”
I wonder if Rowan collects broken people on purpose, if he recognizes the value in those that society discards. If that’s how he views me, as another damaged piece to add to his collection.
“Ghost?” I ask, curious about the mismatched eyes and absent scent.
“That’s a story for another time.” Rowan’s expression closes, telling me I’ve hit a boundary. “Your turn. How did you become Lena’s guardian?”
The question cuts through the warm haze of food and comfort. My muscles tense, appetite vanishing as memories flood back of the dingy apartment where we were born, the constant fear, the calculations of how much formula we could afford until the next welfare check came in the mail.
Rowan catches the change, and his hand finds mine. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready.”
But I owe him this much after he’s opened his home to Lena and me without question and shared pieces of himself.
I set the coffee mug on the nightstand, gathering myself for the story I’ve never shared in full.
“My parents were addicts before they had me.” The words fall from my lips without emotion, facts separated from the feelings they should carry.
“Meth was their preferred drug, though they weren’t picky if they got their hands on some pills.
I was an accident. Lena was an even bigger one, nine years later. ”
I trace the corner of the breakfast tray with my fingertip, focusing on the smooth wood rather than Rowan. “Mom was six months pregnant before she realized it. Too late to ‘take care of it’ as she wanted to.”
Rowan sits still beside me, his breathing so quiet I almost forget he’s there.
“Dad was working construction back then, off and on between binges. Mom cleaned hotel rooms when she was sober enough.” I push the half-eaten breakfast away, appetite gone.
“They were high when Lena was born. I was the one who called an ambulance when Mom went into labor on our bathroom floor. God, she beat the shit out of me for that.”
The memory of blood on cracked linoleum rises, the dispatcher asking questions I couldn’t answer, and the paramedics pushing past me to reach her.
“They kept Lena in the hospital for a week to wean her off the drugs. My parents were going to give her up, but they found out they could get more money from the government if they kept her.”
My throat tightens, but I force the words out. “I visited every day after school to learn how to hold her, feed her, and change her. The nurses thought I was sweet, playing big brother. They didn’t realize I was taking notes because no one else would care for her once she came home.”
Rowan’s hand finds mine, his thumb tracing circles on my palm, and the small comfort is easier to accept than words.
“I was only nine when she came home. I had to stand on a chair to heat the formula on the stove. I stole diapers from convenience stores when money went to drugs instead. Learned which bill collectors to avoid and which neighbors might watch her when I had to go to school. Every day, I was terrified I’d come home and find her dead or sold. ”
Rowan draws me toward him, one hand at my waist, the other cradling the back of my neck.
For a heartbeat, I resist before my body yields.
He guides me into his lap, and I curl into his chest, my ear pressed to the steady rhythm of his heart.
Tension drains from me in increments as his warmth spreads through the parts of me that have been cold for years.
When his arms encircle me, I exhale, a shudder running through me as I allow myself to let someone share my burden.
“When I presented as an Omega at fifteen, things got worse.” My finger trails over Rowan’s chest, tracing his tattoo.
“Suddenly, I had value beyond babysitting. Some Alpha offered my dad money for me outside a bar. He came home with this gleam in his eye, talking about how I could start contributing to the family.”
Rowan’s arms tighten around me, muscles tensing. A sound builds in his chest, not quite a growl, but a protective vibration against my back where I’m pressed to him. His jaw clenches, the tendons in his neck standing out as he swallows whatever words might have escaped.
“I ran the same night. Took what I could carry, left Lena with the neighbor, and disappeared.” The admission snags in my throat. “I was so ashamed to leave her behind, but she was only six. There’s no way I could have protected her on the streets. But leaving her there with them…”
Rowan rumbles in comfort, a deep vibration that melts my bones, his broad hand stroking slow circles between my shoulder blades, as if offering reassurance to the younger version of me who needed it most.
I swallow hard. “For months, I lived on the streets before I joined up with a crew working petty theft and break-ins. One of the older guys, Max, taught me locks. He said I had the right fingers for it, sensitive enough for the delicate work.”
I flex my fingers, remembering the hours spent practicing on discarded locks, the triumph of the first click giving way beneath my touch.
“Max got me an apprenticeship with a locksmith at Ironclad Security.” My lips twist. “The owner thought I was eighteen. I didn’t correct him. Six months later, I had enough saved for a security deposit on a shit apartment, but it was mine.”
The sunlight shifts as clouds pass outside, throwing shadows across the rumpled bed. In the dimmer light, Rowan’s stare burns brighter, his arms still locked around me as if he’s afraid I might dissolve if he loosens his grip.
“I tried to visit Lena when I could. Brought food, clothes, and checked if she was going to school.” My jaw tightens. “My parents caught me, though, and started using her to squeeze money from me. Fifty bucks to visit with her for an hour. A hundred to ensure she ate that week.”
Rowan shifts beside me, the mattress dipping with his weight. “You were a child yourself.”
“I was her brother.” The answer comes, automatic and absolute. “The day she presented as an Omega, I understood exactly what they would do to her.”
I still remember Lena’s frightened call from a school bathroom, the sweet scent of early presentation clinging to her hair when I picked her up, and the calculating greed in our father when we walked through the door.
“She was twelve. I was twenty-one, established at Ironclad, working just under full-time hours and bringing in enough money for a studio apartment.” I swallow, pushing past the tightness in my throat.
“I spent all my savings to hire a shitty lawyer and filed for guardianship. But my parents wanted more money than I could pay to sign their rights away.”
The muscles in Rowan’s jaw bunch as his eyes narrow to amber slits. The protective rumble in his chest returns, deeper this time, vibrating through the places our bodies touch. “How much?”
“Twenty thousand.” My mouth twists. “It might as well have been a million. They never expected me to find the funds. They just wanted to see me chasing the illusion.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken questions. I can almost hear the gears turning in Rowan’s head, connecting the dots I left scattered.
“Then they overdosed.” The statement comes out flat, stripped of emotion. “Both of them on the same night. They were found with the needles still in their arms. They were known drug users, but the police investigated it as a homicide.”
Rowan’s hand slides up my arm, his touch gentle but insistent. “Were you suspected?”
“Not for long.” I meet his stare without flinching. “I was working the night it happened. Security cameras at Ironclad showed me at the shop until two in the morning. By the time Lena called me from the police station, they’d been dead for hours.”
His fingers trace the line of my jaw. “Convenient timing.”
“Very.” My pulse jumps beneath his touch. “Lena became my ward without contestation.”
The question hangs unasked between us, Rowan searching my face. I wait, allowing him this moment of scrutiny, this silent interrogation.
“Was it an accident?” he asks, more curious than accusative.
My stomach tightens, throat dry as bone. “Are you asking if I killed my parents to protect Lena?”
Rowan’s thumb brushes the corner of my mouth. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
The confession hovers on my tongue, the truth I’ve never spoken aloud to anyone. How simple it would be to unburden myself, to share this final secret with the man who’s seen me at my most unguarded.
“Their addiction killed them.” The statement hangs between us, technically true. My hands never held the needles. My fingers never pushed the plungers.
Rowan studies me, searching for the thing I haven’t said. That while I didn’t kill them, I didn’t claim their deaths were accidental.
As his lips part to respond, the distant sound of the front door opening breaks the moment.
“Hello? I hope you guys are decent!” Lena’s bright, cheerful call echoes from the entryway, breaking the moment. “I brought home presents!”
Panic floods my system, and I bolt upright, suddenly self-conscious of my nakedness. For three days, I belonged to Rowan without question. Now the real world is intruding, and I’m not sure the version of me who survived without him still exists.
Worse, I’m not sure I want it to.