Chapter 37
Sebastian
I couldn’t prove it, but I was fairly certain Mason had snuck into bed sometime after midnight. Not only had she wedged herself between Cameron and me, she’d also gone to sleep hungry.
Why did I think that?
For starters, a few long strands of her hair clung to my pillow, and the dried patch of drool on my shirt sure as hell wasn’t mine. But more telling was what woke me: not sunlight, not my alarm, but the faint, ugly sound of someone gagging in my master bathroom.
At first, I ignored it. She didn’t want me knowing she was pregnant, and if I went charging in after touching her stomach yesterday, she’d connect the dots fast. So, I rolled over, smashed a pillow over my head, and pretended to sleep.
It worked until Rosie stirred in the crib by Cam’s side of the bed, and Cam picked her up, put her between us, and promptly fell back asleep. Despite all my lectures about safe sleep, my boyfriend and my girlfriend never listened.
By the time I sat up, Rosie was already kicking in the middle of the mattress, four new teeth flashing in a grin like she’d been waiting for my attention. She tugged at the embroidered flowers on her pajamas with unyielding determination.
“What?” I mumbled, groping for my glasses.
She squealed like I’d just delivered the punchline of the year.
I shoved my glasses on just in time to catch her clapping. “That was sarcastic, wasn’t it?”
Another sharp inhale, another clap. From down the hall, the shower came on.
“Come on, monster,” I sighed, scooping her up. “Let’s go check on your mama.”
Her little body radiated heat against my chest, sticky with drool and baby sweat. Kids were gross. But this one was mine. I pressed my lips into her curls anyway, kissed the mess.
Steam rolled out the bathroom door as I cracked it open, lavender thick in the air. Rosie coughed dramatically, almost drowned out by the audiobook Mason had playing in the shower. G-rated, surprisingly, usually the stuff Mason listened to rivaled most porn.
“Shhh,” I whispered. “We’re going to surprise her.”
Rosie mimicked me with her own garbled shhh, spitting on my glasses in the process.
“Exactly.” I wiped them clean.
Together we crept to the glass shower door. There was a small tile step separating the shower from the rest of the bathroom. Too bad for her, I wasn’t vertically challenged. I slid the door open with one hand.
“Good morning, beautiful,” I crooned.
Mason yelped. Rosie flinched and whimpered, her whole body quaking with betrayal.
“Oh no,” Mason gasped, snatching her from me, naked, wet, unbothered by modesty. “I’m so sorry.”
Her apologies didn’t stop Rosie from unleashing what sounded like fake tears. Mason bounced her gently, whispering nonsense–maybe French, maybe gibberish–into her ear.
The tears ended abruptly when Rosie spotted Mason’s breast. Like a heat-seeking missile, she latched on, greedy and loud.
Mason squeaked. “No, no, no–” She tried to pull the baby away, but slick water made it impossible. Rosie only sucked harder, stubborn fist curled against her chest.
“Mason,” I said, biting down a laugh, “she’s thirsty. Just let her be.”
Her wide eyes cut to mine. “She can’t nurse in the shower, Sebastian! I’m going to drop her, and she’ll drown!”
Suppressing my smirk, I stepped forward and took the baby. Rosie popped off with a wet smack, milk dribbling down her chin, immediately squawking for more.
“Oh, hush,” I muttered, setting her on the bathmat. She was warm, close, and safe—none of which stopped her from wailing. Babies were dramatic assholes.
Mason flinched at the sound. “Seb, she’s going to scream the whole time if you don’t give her back.”
“You just told me she couldn’t nurse–plus she'll live two minutes without your boob,” I said, handing Mason a towel and killing the water. “You look pale, princess.”
“I am pale,” she argued, though her knees knocked as she took my hand.
“Have you eaten?” I asked, ignoring the fact I’d heard her retching for the past hour.
She shook her head, sinking onto the mat beside Rosie. The baby latched instantly, sucking in contented gulps while Mason smoothed her hair, but there was something heavy behind her eyes.
“You skipped dinner last night,” I reminded her.
Her throat bobbed. “I didn’t mean to… Mattie was supposed to bring food back after feeding Nyx.”
I blinked. “The fuck is a Nyx?”
“Her ferret,” Mason murmured, offering Rosie a finger.
The baby wrapped her whole fist around it. Mason lit up at the gesture, but the sadness didn’t leave her face.
“Hey,” I nudged her shoulder gently. “You good?”
“Mattie never came back,” she admitted. Her voice cracked, thick with unshed tears.
I felt bad. Really, I did. But my chest still whispered good riddance. Mason didn’t need me gloating, so I crouched down and braced my forearms on my knees.
“Then I’ll make breakfast,” I said. “Real breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, biscuits—whatever you want.”
She blinked like she wasn’t sure she’d heard me right. After a beat, she whispered, “Breakfast potatoes. And bacon.”
I raised a brow at my vegetarian girlfriend, but let it go. Almost. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?” My eyes flicked down to the slight, undeniable swell of her stomach.
She shook her head. “I’m just getting fat, that’s all.”
“Well, then I guess I’m a closeted chubby chaser,” I teased.
Her face went pink, then bright red, until she smacked me in the chest hard enough to knock me on my ass.
“Sebastian!” she growled, but her lips betrayed her, twitching upward.
Rosie startled at the noise, popped off Mason’s breast, and began fussing again. Mason groaned, torn between soothing the baby and shoving me harder.
It was the perfect moment to say it—that I loved her, that I loved these small, messy mornings and wanted forever with her. But the timing wasn’t there. Not after our worst fight. Not right after I’d jokingly called her fat. So I settled on a truth she could hold.
“You’re the only woman I ever imagined spending my life with.”
Mason froze. Even Rosie quieted, blinking up like she understood. Mason’s lips parted, but no words came. Her gaze burned, full of everything she didn’t know how to say, before she looked down and smoothed Rosie’s hair.
It was nice having my girls back.
Back in Hartwood, mornings had been chaos. Everyone up at different times, scrambling through tasks to keep things running. I’d always blamed it on the kids. Turns out, even geniuses are wrong sometimes.
Cam came downstairs after I intentionally charred the first batch of bacon, you know, to season the pan or whatever. Apparently, my culinary expertise wasn’t welcome.
Moments later, Jasper and Juniper burst from their room, both talking so fast I could barely catch a word.
They told me everything about the last two weeks, movies, parks, two flights to California, some grown-up smearing goo in Mason’s hair, and how they got fairylights–strands of rainbow tinsel now woven through both their heads.
Their voices overlapped, bright and unstoppable. And I realized, with something sharp in my chest, how good Mason had been at keeping their lives normal. How well she’d filled in the gaps without us.
She was one hell of a mom, and nothing could take that from her. When she came down from the shower with Rosie on her hip and immediately started getting the kids ready for the day, I should have helped.
But I couldn’t. Instead, I stood in the hallway, coffee cup in one hand as I leaned against the wall, mesmerized by the woman I’d magically made mine. I’d been so transfixed by her doing Juniper’s hair that I didn’t notice Cameron snuck behind me until the warmth of his hand invaded my shoulder.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Whatever I said would remain between the two of us, and maybe that’s why I felt comfortable enough to be a dumb ass.
“How many kids is the limit?” I asked, my heart skipping as she smiled between the kids, kissing each of their foreheads.
“Uhh…” Cameron sucked his teeth, and I knew I didn’t want to see his expression. “Four?”
“What about, like, six?”
Or eight. Or ten. Really, having them in multiples of two was the only responsible thing to do. That way they’d each have a built-in best friend.
Oh my god. Wait.
…Did I have a breeding kink?
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine it. The thought shot through me like a live wire. Mason, round with my child again, that much was happening. Our children gathered around her, all waiting for her attention. Check. But I wanted more.
Oh God, I needed more.
Her belly swelling, her body softer, her mouth pressed against mine with that desperate little whimper she only made when she thought she might break.
The way she needed me when she was pregnant, like she’d die if I wasn’t close enough.
Christ, I wanted to fill her again and again until the idea of me was carved into her bones.
Until there was no question, no denial, no Sons of Christ or ghost of Lucian that could rewrite what I’d already claimed.
The fantasy coiled tight in my chest, equal parts reverence and hunger.
“Hey, you okay?” Cameron nudged my shoulder. “You’re breathing a little funny.”
I nodded and tore my eyes away from her. “Is breakfast done? She was hungry.”
Cameron studied me for a second too long, like he knew exactly where my head had gone, but he let it slide. “Yeah. Plates are set.”
I thanked him before running off to the dining room and calling everyone to the table, you know, so I could at least pretend I made breakfast.
The twins came first, their little feet slapping against the ground as if the two of them alone were a herd of overcaffeinated wild animals.
Jasper tripped over Juniper, Juniper screamed that he hurt her and that she wanted to sit next to Papa–Cameron–and I did what most dads did best–tuned them out.
That was the only way to keep your sanity when small children were involved.