Chapter 11 #2
For a long moment, neither of us said a word. She just stood there, staring like I was a ghost she hadn’t quite believed would ever reappear.
“Who are you?” the boy asked, voice steady. “Mom, is that my Labubu?”
Leila’s eyes dropped to the toy in my hand.
“Um…” Her voice wavered, stuck halfway between her mouth and her throat.
So I helped her out.
“I’m a friend of your mom’s,” I said, meeting the kid’s gaze. “She left this at the cafe the other day when we met. Isn’t that right, Leila?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Thanks.” Leila said quickly, snatching the Labubu from my hand. “Have a good day, Luca.” Ollie looked up at her, then back at me, curiosity glowing in his eyes. But he didn’t speak.
I couldn’t stop looking at him. And every time I did, I saw Leila stiffen.
“I’m sorry to interrupt. Were you busy?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice firm.
“Mommy’s been trying to fix the kitchen sink for hours. But the water keeps splashing everywhere.”
I raised a brow. He was articulate for someone his age—clear, precise. Like I’d been when I was his age.
I glanced at Leila again. That explained the soaked shirt.
“If you don’t mind, I can help,” I offered, before I could think better of it.
Leila frowned. “What do you know about fixing kitchen sinks?”
“More than you do, I’m guessing.”
“Uncle Ray—the man who helps us—traveled,” Ollie said. “So Mom is stuck. The kitchen keeps flooding, and she has to clean the floors every time.”
Leila closed her eyes briefly and pressed her lips together, clearly embarrassed.
I looked down at the boy, and to my surprise, a genuine smile tugged at my lips.
He was sharp. Observant.
“If Mommy doesn’t mind,” I said, “maybe I could take a look at the sink?”
We both turned to look at her.
She looked between the two of us, as if weighing more than just my offer.
Then Ollie tugged at her sleeve, looking up at her with wide eyes.
“Please, Mommy? So the kitchen sink can finally stop leaking—and you can stop stressing about it?”
I saw the moment she gave in—when her shoulders slumped, and she exhaled like she didn’t have a choice.
“Fine,” she said quietly.
Ollie grinned and immediately grabbed my hand, tugging me toward the house.
The kitchen was small and cluttered, but clean. Sunlight spilled through a window over the sink, casting soft light across a dish rack, an open toolbox, and a half-mopped floor. A disassembled pipe lay beside a bucket full of water. The air smelled faintly of soap and pancakes.
I watched Leila as she deliberately avoided looking at me, her eyes flicking to everything else—the ceiling, the counter, even the leaking sink—anywhere but me.
I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt and stepped closer. Her breath hitched. Her scent hit me like a punch to the gut—intoxicating, wild, unmistakably hers. My wolf stirred beneath my skin, alert now. Restless. Drawn to her like gravity.
She looked up.
I smirked. Then reached for the wrench in her hand, brushing her gloved fingers as I took it.
Crouching beside the cabinet, I assessed the mess. The sink was an old model—rusted in all the wrong places. But not beyond saving.
Ollie crouched beside me, chin in his palm, watching like it was a front row seat to a live-action superhero movie. He didn’t say a word, just tracked my every move as I twisted a loose joint beneath the sink.
I hadn’t done this in years. Not since I was a teenager and my father made me shadow the pack handyman every time he came around. “Know how things work before you expect to rule them,” he’d said. At the time, I hated it. Now? Kind of grateful.
The pipe clicked back into place. Water ran clean and smooth. No drips. No spray.
Ollie whooped, hands in the air. “You fixed it!”
I stood, wiping my hands on the rag Leila handed me. My shirt was damp, and there was grime under my nails—but for some reason, I felt…good.
Fulfilled, even.
And all because I fixed a damn sink.
Maybe it was the way the boy looked at me—like I’d just saved them from a disaster of epic proportions.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
Ollie grinned. “Thanks, Mister.”
I chuckled and offered my hand. “Call me Luca.”
He slipped his small fingers into mine and tried to shake it, but my hand was too big, so I helped him out with the motion.
“Do you play video games, Luca?”
“Why, yes. I’ve got Call of Duty, LEGO—”
“I have LEGO too! Do you wanna play?”
“Sure, I would—”
“Ollie,” Leila’s voice cut in, sharp, “what did I say about inviting strangers to play games with you?”
Stranger.
The word sliced straight through my chest.
I turned to her. Her expression was tight, chin lifted in challenge. But she was tapping her foot, fingers fidgeting, like she couldn’t wait for me to get the hell out of her house.
“I’m not a stranger, Leila,” I said, voice low.
She didn’t back down. She just stared at me, defiant.
My gaze dropped—unintentionally. Her soaked shirt clung to her skin, the outline of her bra visible through the fabric. My throat dried. Her nipple peaked slightly against the red lace.
And just like that, I was right back where I shouldn’t be—wanting her. The sharp, unrelenting kind of want that made my pulse throb and my wolf stir.
I wanted to pin her against the counter. Remind her with my mouth, my hands, that I was never a stranger to her. Not to her body. Not to her heart. Not to her wolf.
She caught the direction of my gaze and her body went rigid. Clearing her throat, she stepped away, breaking the pull between us.
“Why don’t you head upstairs and get started on tidying up your room, Ollie?” she said quickly. “I’ll be up in a moment.”
Ollie groaned at the mention of homework, but didn’t argue. He turned to me with a smile. “Thanks again for helping, Luca!”
He waved and darted up the stairs.
And then it was just us.
The moment the boy’s footsteps vanished, the air around us changed.
“Why did you lie about Ollie being your neighbor’s kid the other day?”
Leila tensed. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, her gaze flicking past me like she hadn’t heard the question. But I saw the shift in her jaw and the way her throat worked as she swallowed.
“Who’s the father of the kid?” I asked.
Leila recoiled, eyes wide. Shocked. But I wasn’t in the mood for soft landings. I needed to know. I needed to understand if this thing clawing inside me—this feeling—meant something real.
“What right do you have to ask me that, Luca?” she whisper-yelled, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Look, I appreciate you returning the Labubu and fixing the sink, but you need to go. Now.”
She turned to leave, already walking out of the kitchen. I didn’t follow. I stayed rooted, jaw clenched.
“I’m not going anywhere until you answer my question.”
A scoff tore from her. “God, someone really needs to cut down that audacity of yours.” She spun around, eyes blazing. “You’re not the Alpha of the Bronx. You’re not Alpha in my life. You’re not even in my life, Luca. So you don’t get to storm in here demanding answers like I owe you anything.”
“Damn right I do!” I snapped, voice rising before I could rein it in. “If you’ve had my son all this time—and kept him from me—”
“He’s not your son!” Leila hissed, her voice low and tight, trying not to shout. “Get over yourself, Luca. After what you did to me? If I ever found out I was pregnant with your child, I would’ve terminated it.”
I saw red.
“After what I did to you?” I scoffed, bitter laughter escaping my throat. “Fuck, Leila. Do you really want to go there? You stole from me. You cheated on me. You spread your legs for another goddamn man—”
“Damn you, Luca!” she snapped, trembling now. “If you want to believe I cheated, fine. Hold onto that. But believe this too—Ollie is not yours. I would never want you to father my child. Because the moment things get hard, you run. Just like you ran from me.”
“Things didn’t fall apart, Leila. You wrecked us.”
“And you believed it,” she shot back, voice cracking. “You wanted to. Because it was easier than admitting—”
She stopped herself. But the words hung there, unfinished, choking the space between us.
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Leila took a step back, swallowed hard. “You have to leave, Luca. You are engaged, you shouldn’t be here,” she said quietly. “Don’t make me call the police.”
The words hit like a slap. I recognized them—my own words, thrown back at me. The night I had rejected her. Like she was mocking me.
And without saying anything else, I dropped the rag on the counter and walked out.