Chapter 14
Sebastian
The best part of Saturday? I didn’t have to work.
My apprenticeship was still in full swing, and while Lucian said it would’ve been nice to have me around for cleaning or checking people in, the kids were off daycare, and he figured it’d be better to have an extra hand at the house.
The worst part of Saturday? I had a terrible habit of sleeping in until at least noon, and no one stopped me.
By the time I hauled myself out of bed, the house was weirdly quiet. That meant either everyone died, or the kids were sleeping. Realistically, it was the latter. I scratched my chin, my nails catching on the stubble.
Later, I’d shave. But later wasn’t right now.
My goals were simple:
Light breakfast.
Go to the gym.
Come back.
Harass the kids like they harassed Mason.
At least, that was the goal, until I made it to the living room.
Sunlight streamed through the open blinds, and a loop of bird sounds and a babbling brook played from the TV. Mason sat on the couch, leaned back with Rosie sleeping on her chest. One hand held a book. The other held a brownie.
One that looked awfully homemade.
“Did you bake?” I asked, giving Mason a once-over.
Her spotless white sundress said absolutely not.
Mason looked up from her book like she’d known I’d be there soon. She placed her brownie on a nearby plate, swallowed, and wiped her mouth with her hand.
“No, Cam did,” she mumbled through the half-chewed brownie.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead, then kissed Rosie’s. In response to my affection, my sweet, beautiful, lovely daughter farted like a grown man and snuggled deeper into her mom’s chest.
I gagged. Mason didn’t even flinch. She patted the baby hard enough for the sound to echo off her diaper.
“Her belly hurts,” Mason explained.
“Uh, yeah, it better.”
I took a few steps back, not wanting to be in the splash zone of pinkeye.
Rosie was twenty pounds, and sure, she was a chunky baby, but never in my life would I understand how something that small could smell that bad.
“She’s been gassy all morning. I’ve walked a hundred laps around the house, and now she’s finally asleep.” Mason adjusted the baby without looking and went back to her brownie.
Being a parent was gross. And it wasn’t just her. Because despite being assaulted by biological warfare, I was still ready for breakfast.
Mason must’ve caught me staring, because she gestured toward the kitchen. “There’s more on the stove if you want them.”
Fuck yes.
I mumbled an apology for not waking up sooner and headed for the kitchen.
Before dating Mason, I’d successfully avoided almost all added sugar for three years.
The last time I so much as looked at a brownie was back when I first started bodybuilding at eighteen and had to bulk up.
That part of the cycle–eating whatever I wanted without worrying about the results–was way more fun than cutting or maintaining.
Now that I was free from restrictive dieting?
Sugar was my weakness, to say the least.
When Mason said there were more in the kitchen, I envisioned a mostly full pan, or at least one that looked like it had been consumed by civilized people.
Instead, not only was the pan mostly empty, but the only squares left were the three sad ones in the center.
Mushy. Limp. Completely cornerless. You know, the parts of the brownie no one actually wants.
My head tipped back and I let out a spoiled groan.
Was I still going to have a brownie and a cup of coffee for breakfast? Yes.
Would I enjoy it? Probably.
But would I have enjoyed a corner piece more? Absolutely.
Still, I grabbed a plate and a spatula and scooped out my chocolate mush.
“It’s about time you woke up,” Cameron drawled.
It wasn’t wise for the prime suspect of a crime to return to the scene, yet here he was, judging me for sleeping in while he slipped on a promise.
“I thought you were supposed to be eating better,” I snapped, pointing at the pan.
Cameron’s brow creased as he raised his hands in a placating gesture.
“I am. I had a spinach omelet and wheat toast for breakfast, and Mason made salads for lunch.”
“Then explain this,” I said, holding up the pan like it was a murder weapon.
For some stupid reason, Cameron’s face lit up. His eyes bounced to Mason, then back to the pan before he shrugged.
“Mae asked me to make something chocolatey. I’m just glad she’s eatin’.”
I choked on a laugh. He’d have had better luck blaming the missing sweets on Sophia’s demon cats.
“You expect me to believe that ninety-pound Mason ate almost an entire pan of brownies on her own?”
“I mean, I had one or two. The twins shared one after lunch. Soph probably came down and had a couple too.”
My gaze dropped to the tray. Cameron always cut the pan into twelve even, somewhat generous slices. Three remained. Nine were gone. And his story only accounted for—at best—five.
“You’re telling me Mason had four brownies?” I challenged, waiting for him to hear how dumb that sounded.
“Well, yeah. She’s eatin’ for two. It happens.”
He said it so casually, but the very idea made bile rise in my throat.
I looked toward the living room. Rosie had stirred—or woken up, or something—and was now nursing while Mason played with her hair.
“She is what?” I kept my voice low.
Cameron paled.
“She’s…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I meant she’s feeding Rosie. Like, breastfeeding. You know how that makes you hungrier. Plus, Rosie eats all the time. So Mae’s eating for two. To make the milk.”
Bull. Shit.
“‘Eating for two’ means someone is pregnant, Cameron,” I pointed out.
“No, if she was pregnant, she’d be eating for three. Herself, Rosie, the baby.” He gestured vaguely toward the couch.
My voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is this some fucked-up Canadian thing?”
“No!” Cameron whispered back. “I just misspoke. I assumed, seeing as she’s literally feeding two people, the saying applied.”
I stood a little straighter, pulling away just enough. Cameron sounded irritated—and he never got irritated with me or Mason. But he also never lied to me.
Thanks to both our pasts, honesty was the foundation of our whole relationship.
“Cameron,” I said carefully, slipping my hands into my pockets to hide their shaking, “is Mason pregnant?”
His breath audibly hitched.
And I prepared to blow a fucking gasket.
He’d yelled at me for not using condoms from Lucian’s obscenely large stash. I was the one who bought the morning-after pill just to be safe.
How could he be careless?
“No,” he said.
Quiet. Low. But with an edge. The kind of edge that said don’t push it.
“And don’t you dare go sayin’ she is,” he added, barely above a mutter. “She’s gettin’ too skinny, and I’m just glad she’s eatin’ again. If you bring it up, she’ll get in her head and stop.”
That shut me up.
I looked over at the couch.
Rosie had apparently only needed a sip of milk because she was already back to dozing on her mom.
A smile tugged at my lips as Mason gently wiped milk from Rosie’s cheeks, brushing her curls back like she was made of spun sugar.
Baby girl was the world’s messiest eater, but she also had the world’s most patient mom.
Mason shifted Rosie back onto her shoulder, and that’s when I noticed it.
Cameron was right.
It wasn’t some dramatic transformation. Mason hadn’t gone from glowing to gaunt overnight, but the change was there. She’d always been thin, maybe even a little wiry, but now her collarbones were more pronounced.
And I cursed myself for not noticing sooner.
Was that why she hadn’t been feeling well? Why she looked so wiped every time I saw her?
Cameron’s voice was quiet behind me. Careful. Like he knew I’d finally started to see it.
“So, yeah,” he said. “four brownies is excessive. And no, I won’t encourage her to do it every day. But she’s eating to make milk for my baby and keep herself healthy. You need to let me love her in the only way I know how.”
And he was right. I needed to let him take care of her.
But I wasn’t going to apologize.
If he wanted to throw around euphemisms, he better know what they meant and use them right. I was just about to tell him that—then the stairs creaked.
I looked up to see Sophia descending, dressed in a butter-yellow athletic set. The leggings left nothing to the imagination. Her blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and the spray tan she’d just gotten made the soft color pop against her skin.
I looked away.
We’d had a conversation about her not degrading me—I felt I had expressed myself well, but she didn’t really seem to listen. The ordeal left me feeling a little ashamed to even be in her presence.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just crossed the living room with quiet, bouncy steps and knelt beside the couch to kiss Rosie’s forehead.
Then Mason’s.
“Go put the rugrat in her crib and take a nap. You look like you need it.” She smoothed Rosie’s hair back.
Mason shook her head. “Her belly hurts. If I put her down, she’ll scream.” She sounded utterly defeated.
I wondered if I should skip the gym entirely.
Sophia waved her off, then turned toward us.
“Oh, Cameron,” she sang, crooking a finger. “The beautiful little girl you made is grumpy, and my sweet little Honeybee is so tired.” She cupped Mason’s face and cooed, “Be a doll and take the baby so Mason can rest?”
Cameron muttered something and walked away with Rosie. And I swear, in the subtle way his shoulders dropped, I could tell he was relieved to leave.
How the fuck did Sophia order everyone around so effortlessly?
She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t threaten. Yet here she was, and now Cameron was gone and Mason was saying thank you instead of arguing.
What sort of black magic was this?
Cameron vanished down the hall with the baby. Sophia turned her attention back to me.
Her blue eyes sparkled. Her smile widened.
I busied myself with coffee and my almost-forgotten brownie.
“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” she called, way closer than I wanted her to be.
“Coffee,” I muttered, not daring to turn around.
The pot was nearly empty, but still warm. I didn’t expect much—it was already one in the afternoon—but I was grateful no one had dumped it. I grabbed a white mug and filled it to the brim.
Lately I’d been adding oat milk and vanilla to my morning cup. Cameron said caffeine didn’t have to be punishment, and I was trying to embrace that.
But with Sophia breathing down my neck, I felt this stupid pressure to be stereotypically masculine. Like that alone would give her less to pick on.
So, I begrudgingly prepared to drink it black.
Like a man.
One who didn’t overthink everything.
One who didn’t worry if he was enough.
One who didn’t accidentally fall into a cult in a moment of weakness.
One who—every muscle in my body tensed—one who was not currently overwhelmed by the sweet, candy-like scent of Sophia’s perfume.
Swallowing hard, I turned around, pressing myself back against the counter to put as much distance between us as possible.
“Good morning, Sophia,” I said calmly, mentally high-fiving myself for not stuttering.
She smiled up at me and placed a hand on my forearm. She was warm. Soft. Mean.
And I couldn’t shake that.
I focused all my energy on lifting the mug to my lips and taking a long drink.
“Where you going, hot stuff?” she asked.
This situation bore eerie similarities to the times when my classmates used to ask me out as a joke.
“I’m going to take my medicine, eat breakfast, and go to the gym,” I said plainly.
Her face lit up like I’d offered to rail her over the island. She squealed, clapped her hands, and bounced in place.
“That’s so awesome! Me too!” she chirped. “That means we can go together!”
And I froze, nearly dropping my mug.
I should’ve known by her outfit. I should’ve changed my plan. Lied. Said I was gonna rot on the couch and play video games until I “magically” decided to hit the gym right after she got back.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I need time to get ready, so I probably won’t go for like…” I blew out a breath, calculating the right amount of fake delay. “An hour?”
“That’s fine!” she chirped, completely unfazed. “I’ll find something to do.”
God fucking damn it.