Chapter 26. Ambrose
I was woken in the early hours of the morning by a demonstration of just how loud Caitlyn could be in bed.
Her face—somewhere beneath a mat of hair—was directly beside my ear as she let out a snore so powerful it rattled the bedposts.
Blaise really hadn’t been exaggerating when he said her snoring was bad.
And, as promised, she’d somehow managed to push me to the very edge of the bed, sleeping diagonally with limbs sprawled in every direction.
I glanced to my other side, spotting the two unopened boxes of earbuds on the nightstand, and briefly wondered why we hadn’t taken the time to put them in before falling asleep.
And then it all came flooding back.
The mating bonds.
The admissions.
The sex.
The mating bites.
My body hovered somewhere between unfettered pleasure and a deep, grounding sense of calm as I sank back into the pillow, trying to process just how I’d ended up this lucky.
Unfortunately, my pondering was cut short by another almighty snore from Caitlyn.
Wincing, I gently pried her tangled locks away from her face, worried she might accidentally inhale half her hair on one of those heroic breaths. When I finally found her face, she looked utterly peaceful—serene, even—despite the chainsaw-level noises coming out of her.
Over her shoulder, I could see that Blaise, too, had been pushed to the very edge of the bed. One arm was covering his face in an unconscious effort to block out the noise, the other was sprawled across the pillow, Caitlyn’s fingers laced loosely through his.
It was a beautiful moment—one that made me want to both watch them forever and gently shake them awake so we could start our day together.
But when I glanced at the clock, it was only 5 a.m. And from experience, if we weren’t on a job, Blaise was a dedicated night owl who wouldn’t surface until well after midday. Maybe a little earlier, with Caitlyn snoring beside him.
I let my eyes linger on my mates for a moment longer before carefully sliding out of bed.
I paused when I noticed three fresh sets of clothes, neatly folded, on the chest at the foot of the bed.
I wasn’t sure whether Caitlyn had magicked my spare set in from my van—or if the creepy, supposedly caretaker doll had something to do with it—but I gathered them into my arms and tiptoed across the room.
I lingered in the doorway, my chest swelling at how peaceful my mates looked, before gently pulling the door closed behind me and heading straight to the bathroom, for the bath had been calling my name since last night.
The moment I stepped inside, I realized it had already been drawn.
Steam curled lazily into the air, scented with lavender.
After depositing my clothes on a wicker chair, gathering a fresh towel from the ancient rattan linen cupboard and placing it within reach of the bath, I sank into the water before I could dwell too long on who, exactly, had prepared it for me.
I wasn’t sure how long I lay there, the water never seeming to grow tepid, tracing a finger over the perfect mating bite Caitlyn had given me last night and pondering where Blaise might bestow his on me.
The hunger pangs had long since faded, but there was still a weariness settled deep in my bones and a sharpness that remained on my features—from what I could see from the brief glimpse of my reflection I’d caught in the steamy mirror—that even a relaxing bath couldn’t quite cure.
Fortunately for me, the cure was another round of earth-shattering sex with my mates, so I supposed it wasn’t all bad.
Eventually, I decided it was time to rise.
I grabbed a towel and patted myself dry, changed into the fresh clothes, brushed my teeth, drained and wiped down the bath before placing the towel in the very handy laundry shoot, and left the bathroom with every intention of exploring the house in its entirety—excluding the greenhouse, because I suspected Mordi might not be quite as fond of me as it was of Caitlyn.
I didn’t get very far.
The door with the knee-high scratches—the one Caitlyn had assured me was permanently sealed to everyone but Creep—stood ajar.
Curiosity got the better of me. I padded over and gave it a tentative push.
Beyond it was a small landing, surprisingly feminine and soft. A tiny console table was pressed against the wall, a half-open box of delicate ribbons and lace resting on top. The stairs were padded in plush, dusky-pink carpet, coiling upward onto the floor above.
“Hello?” I called gently.
A pitter-patter of tiny feet answered from somewhere overhead. The door didn’t slam shut in my face, so I took it as a silent invitation rather than a warning.
The handrail winding up the stairs was freshly polished walnut, smooth and silken beneath my fingers as I began to climb.
What greeted me was not the homicidal, possessed doll’s lair Caitlyn had half joked about... but something far more unexpected.
The room was set up for a child.
Not just any child, but one who loved dolls and frills, tea parties and dress-up, crafts and stories.
Everything was creams and soft pastels, plush and ruffled and carefully arranged.
The space was pristine, as though a child might walk in at any moment and pick up their gentle play right where they’d left off.
A minuscule table and matching chairs sat at the center of the room.
Tendrils of steam curled up from a tiny teapot, and what looked to be real finger sandwiches and cakes were arranged neatly on a cake stand.
Child-sized chairs were scattered along the walls, nestled between dollhouses, shelves of books, craft tables, and boxes of toys that all looked at least a century out of date.
A sudden, unfamiliar warmth settled in my chest—something protective, something paternal. I’d never given much thought to children before, never having had a reason to let myself linger on the idea. And yet, standing here, I could picture them so clearly.
One with Caitlyn’s freckles and Blaise’s easy grin. Another with my tightly coiled hair and Caitlyn’s hazel eyes. I could see them running through this space, curled up with books, playing make-believe among the dolls and tea sets.
The thought startled me—because it felt inevitable. Until last night, I hadn’t even let myself consider reciprocated love. Now, the shape of a family had slipped quietly into that space instead, and I didn’t want to let it go.
A movement caught my eye.
I hadn’t noticed when Creep had appeared at the central table, seated primly with one small hand outstretched. The chair opposite her slid back an inch, inviting me to join her.
Was I about to have a tea party with a haunted doll?
... Sure. Why not.
The only issue was that I wouldn’t fit so much as half an ass cheek on that chair.
Obliging anyway, I padded over, tugged the chair aside, and settled cross-legged on the floor beside it, feeling absurdly enormous as I took in the spread laid out before me.
Creep lifted her hand.
The teapot floated obediently into the air, pouring her an imaginary cup and me a very real one. Tiny sandwiches and cakes bobbed onto my plate, arranging themselves neatly, as if offended by the idea of a messy spread.
Only once everything had settled did I pick up one of the sandwiches and popped it into my mouth.
It was... genuinely excellent. Fresh bread, cream cheese, and cucumber.
I glanced at her. “Thank you.”
Her glassy eyes flickered to the cup of tea. It looked comically small in my hands, and I swallowed the contents in a single gulp.
“I very much like your room,” I said, and Creep’s eyes fluttered at the compliment. I could have sworn the painted blush on her cheeks deepened. “Is this where your previous family’s children used to play?”
Creep lifted one small hand from the table and wiggled it in the universal kinda gesture.
There was a soft pop, and where my plate and cup had been, a small box now sat.
“May I open it?” I asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.
Creep nodded.
I ran my fingers over the box. It looked ancient, but well loved, and I could practically feel the hum of happy memories thrumming beneath my skin. Woven through that warmth was a familiar pang of pain and anger, the pull of a sea storm lurking just above calm waters.
The latch was delicate and stubborn beneath my comically large fingers. When it finally gave way, the hinges creaked softly as I lifted the lid. Inside lay a bundle wrapped in pastel pink cloth, bound with a dusty rose velvet ribbon.
I tugged at the ribbon.
Magic surged around me—homey and sad all at once—as the fabric fell away and the contents spilled free. Mostly paper, with the odd trinket mixed in, they fluttered from the box and began to swirl around me in a slow, drifting orbit.
It took me a moment to realize that it wasn’t just scraps of paper swirling around me, but childhood drawings, all carefully arranged by Creep.
The same figure appeared again and again.
At first, it was nothing more than a crude stick figure with too many fingers and a shock of black hair, the kind of drawing made by very small hands.
But with each picture, the lines grew surer, the proportions more confident, the artist unmistakably older.
By the final drawing, the figure was rendered with skill and intention.
I recognized her instantly.
Priscilla.
This was her story, drawn across the years—and Creep had arranged it like a mural, waiting for me to read it.
I glanced at Creep, but the little doll had dropped her gaze to her feet, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she waited for me to study the pictures.
With a quiet sigh, I turned back to the first drawing.