Chapter 15 Amelia
Amelia
I'm trying to be quiet as I move through Dylan's house in the pre-dawn darkness, but apparently I'm not as stealthy as I thought. The kitchen light flicks on just as I'm grabbing my bag from the counter, and I freeze like a kid caught sneaking out.
Dylan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his hair sticking up in about fifteen different directions.
He's wearing flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt that's inside out, and there's a pillow crease on his cheek.
"Where are you off to?" His voice is rough with sleep but amused. "You don't work on weekends."
"I know, I just..." I clutch my bag tighter, suddenly feeling like I need to justify myself. "They need a little extra help. The house gets messy during the week and I thought I'd go over early, get some things done before the kids wake up. Make breakfast, maybe."
Dylan's eyebrows rise slowly, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Uh huh. And this has nothing to do with the fact that you've been coming home later and later all week? Or that you smile at your phone now when you get texts?"
Heat floods my face. "I don't... that's not what this is."
"What is it, then?" He pushes off the doorframe, moving into the kitchen to start the coffee maker. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like my baby sister has a crush. Multiple crushes, maybe."
"Dylan." His name comes out strangled, embarrassed. "They're your friends. I wouldn't... I can't..."
Maddox appears in the doorway, looking significantly more awake than Dylan despite the early hour.
He takes one look at my flaming face and Dylan's shit-eating grin and laughs, the sound warm and fond.
"You like them, don't you? I haven't seen you this happy in.
.." He pauses, his expression softening.
"I don't think I've ever seen you this happy. And I love it."
"Nothing is happening," I insist, but my voice is too high, too defensive. "I'm just helping with the kids. That's all. They're good people and I like working for them, but that's it."
Dylan moves closer, his teasing expression shifting into something more serious.
"Why not? They're good Alphas, Amelia. Really good.
Their kids are adorable and clearly adore you.
And honestly, I'd love an excuse to go over there more often.
Silas is my best friend, and I miss hanging out with him like we used to. "
I stare at my brother, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. "That's not... this isn't about that."
"Why not?" Dylan asks again, gentler this time.
He reaches out to cup my face, forcing me to meet his eyes.
"You deserve to be happy. You deserve people who treat you well, who appreciate you, who make you smile like you've been smiling lately.
And if that's them, if they make you feel safe and wanted, then why are you fighting it? "
Because I'm terrified. Because the last time I let myself want something it ended with me broken and beaten and running for my life in the middle of the night. Because wanting things feels dangerous, like giving someone ammunition they can use to destroy me.
But I can't say any of that out loud. Not right now, not when I'm already running late and my emotions are too close to the surface.
Maddox crosses the kitchen and pulls me into a hug before I can protest, his solid warmth immediately soothing. "Just let it happen, okay?" he murmurs against the top of my head. "Stop fighting it so hard. And remember, we're just a call away if you need us. For anything."
I nod against his chest, blinking back the tears that are threatening to spill over. Dylan joins the hug, sandwiching me between them, and for a moment I just let myself be held by the two people who've been my safe harbor through all of this.
"Okay," I whisper. "I'll try."
"That's my girl." Dylan kisses my forehead before stepping back. "Now go. Make them breakfast. Smile at them when they say something sweet. And for the love of god, stop overthinking everything."
I grab Maddox's car keys from the hook by the door, the little keychain shaped like a coffee cup that I gave him last Christmas jingling as I fumble with them. "Thank you. For everything. I'll be back tonight."
"Or don't," Dylan calls after me with a laugh. "We're perfectly capable of entertaining ourselves."
I flip him off over my shoulder, which just makes him laugh harder, and then I'm out the door and climbing into Maddox's car.
He's been letting me use it for the past few weeks, insisting that it's easier than coordinating rides all the time.
The gesture is so typically thoughtful that it makes my chest ache.
The drive to the Kane house is familiar now, the route memorized through repetition.
I know which streets to take to avoid the worst traffic, which stop signs are slightly hidden by overgrown trees, which houses have the barking dogs that startle me every time.
The sun is just starting to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange that make everything look soft and new.
I pull into their driveway at six forty-five, early enough that I'm surprised to see lights already on in the kitchen. Someone's awake, which throws off my plan to slip in quietly and have breakfast ready before anyone stirred.
I let myself in with the key Hunter gave me two weeks ago, his hazel eyes serious as he pressed it into my palm. "So you truly don't have to knock," he'd said. "This is your space too now."
The house is warm, the heat already turned on against the early morning chill.
I can smell coffee brewing, which means whoever's awake has already started their morning routine.
I toe off my shoes by the door, leaving them lined up neatly next to the kids' sneakers and rain boots, and pad quietly toward the kitchen.
Silas is standing at the counter in pajama pants and a worn t-shirt, his hair still mussed from sleep, no glasses yet.
He's pouring coffee into two mugs, moving with the slow, careful movements of someone who isn't quite fully awake yet.
When he hears me enter, he looks up, and the smile that spreads across his face is sleepy and warm and makes my stomach flip.
"Morning," he says, his voice rough and deeper than usual. "Didn't expect to see you this early."
"I wanted to make breakfast." I set my bag down on one of the kitchen chairs, suddenly feeling awkward. "I know I don't usually come in on weekends, but I thought maybe..."
"You thought we might need help." He finishes preparing both mugs, then turns to face me fully. "Or maybe you just wanted to be here."
The observation is too accurate, too knowing. I look away, heat creeping up my neck. "I like being here. With the kids. The house."
"And us?" He moves closer, holding out one of the mugs. "Do you like being here with us?"
I take the coffee automatically, my fingers brushing against his. The mug is warm in my hands, prepared exactly how I like it with two sugars and a splash of milk. I take a sip to buy myself time, to figure out how to answer that question without giving away too much.
"You always know how I like it." I say instead, nodding at the coffee.
"I pay attention." His dark brown eyes hold mine, something intense in his gaze that makes it hard to breathe. "To you. To the little things that make you happy. The way you take your coffee, how you fold the dish towels, that you hum when you're content. I pay attention to all of it."
My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
We're standing too close, the kitchen feeling suddenly smaller, the air between us charged with something I'm afraid to name.
I should step back, should put distance between us before I do something stupid like close the gap and find out what his lips taste like.
But I don't move. I just stand there holding my coffee mug like a shield, staring up at him, watching the way the early morning light catches in his eyes and makes them look warmer than usual.
"Amelia," he says softly, setting his own mug down on the counter behind him. "Can I..."
He doesn't finish the question, but I know what he's asking. Can he touch me? Can he cross this line we've been dancing around for weeks? Can he turn this tentative thing between us into something real?
I should say no. Should protect myself, protect my heart, protect the fragile peace I've been building. But when I open my mouth, what comes out is "Yes."
He moves slowly, giving me time to change my mind, to pull away. His hand comes up to cup my face, his palm warm against my cheek, his thumb stroking gently across my cheekbone. I let my eyes drift closed, leaning into the touch despite every warning bell going off in my head.
And then he's kissing me.
It's soft at first, gentle and questioning, his lips moving against mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
Nothing like Vincent's kisses, which were always demanding, always taking.
This is different. This is Silas asking permission with every movement, giving me space to say no, to pull away, to set the boundaries I need.
But I don't want to pull away. I want to sink into this, to let myself have this moment of sweetness and connection. So I kiss him back, tentative at first and then with more confidence, my free hand coming up to fist in his t-shirt, anchoring myself to him.
He makes a low sound in his throat, his other hand sliding down to rest on my hip, and the kiss deepens just slightly. Not overwhelming, not too much, just enough to make heat pool in my stomach and my knees go weak.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and flushed and terrified that I've ruined everything. That I've crossed a line I can't uncross, that he's going to look at me with regret or worse, pity.
But when I force myself to meet his eyes, all I see is warmth. Affection. Want.