Chapter 9 Amelia
Amelia
The morning passes quickly. I help Isaac sound out words in his picture books, nodding and asking questions as he tells me elaborate stories about his truck collection.
We do letters and numbers at the kitchen table, and I'm struck by how bright both kids are.
Riley tears through chapter books meant for kids two grades older, losing herself in the pages.
I recognize the need to escape into stories because it’s something I’d do. Granted, there were no books. Just me and my imagination.
Grief shows up in small moments throughout the day.
Isaac's face falls when he asks a question and adds, "Mama would know." Riley goes quiet sometimes, staring out the window with an expression too old for six years. Both of them watch me carefully and I’m not sure if they’re waiting for me to leave or do something like the previous nanny did.
Riley slipped up once, saying that their last nanny was mean, but she didn’t elaborate.
At this point, I’m just trying to do my best and give them the attention they need.
By early afternoon, I've gotten Isaac down for a nap on the couch.
Riley disappeared upstairs a while ago, telling me that she wanted to grab another book, the house now quiet enough that I can start prepping dinner.
Wyatt didn’t say that making dinner was part of my job but I can only imagine if they work similar jobs to Dylan and Maddox, they won’t have time or they’ll be too tired. Besides, now that I have a purpose? I don’t actually mind putting everything together.
The timer dings on the oven for the lasagna, alerting me that it’s at the right temperature and that’s when I realize I haven't seen Riley in over thirty minutes.
Quickly shoving the rest of the ingredients in the pan, I place it in the oven and head upstairs, following the sound of frustrated huffing to the bathroom.
Riley is standing in front of the mirror, a brush tangled in her long dark hair, her arm twisted at an awkward angle trying to reach the back, her eyes red-rimmed like she's been fighting tears.
"Would you like some help?" I ask from the doorway.
Riley's jaw sets as she glares at me through the mirror. "What would you know about it?"
"My hair isn't exactly the same texture or as curly as yours, but when it gets wet.
.." I gesture vaguely. "It's a disaster.
Takes a lot of time and patience." Dylan always had the worst time with it, and I had no patience.
It took a few years after our parents died before I learned how to take care of it on my own because I refused to do it without my mother.
Riley huffs but sits down in the chair by the sink, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "I can't reach all of it. My dads don't know what to do, so they just braid it."
"I'm assuming you know how to take care of it?"
"My mom taught me." Riley's voice gets small, barely audible over the bathroom fan. "I just..."
"So teach me."
Riley looks up at me through the mirror, those guarded brown eyes searching my face. She's trying to figure out if I'm serious, if I'm someone she can trust with this piece of her mother. "But you're not going to stay. No one ever stays."
The words hit hard, settling somewhere deep in my chest where all my own fears live.
But I don't flinch away from them or try to sugarcoat the truth.
"Then use me for as long as I stay, okay?
I won't promise you I'll be here forever because I don't want to lie to you.
But that doesn't mean I won't be here for as long as I can. "
I hold my hand out for the brush, palm up, waiting for her to give in.
Riley hesitates, studying my face in the mirror like she's trying to find the lie hidden somewhere in my expression. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, she hands it over. God, it’s such a small step, but it feels like a leap.
I start at the ends, the way my mom taught me when I was younger, working through the tangles with careful, gentle strokes.
Riley winces a few times when I hit a particularly stubborn knot, but she doesn't pull away or complain.
I section her hair, patient with each tangle, taking my time because this matters.
Because Riley is trusting me with something precious.
"Your mom must have been really good at this," I say quietly, working through another section.
"She was good at everything with hair." Riley's voice is soft, wistful in a way that makes my chest ache. "She used to do mine and then let me practice on hers. Said I was getting really good at French braids."
"Maybe you can teach me those, too."
Riley meets my eyes in the mirror, something in her expression softening just a fraction. "Maybe."
We fall into comfortable silence as I work through her hair, section by section, the only sounds the gentle brush strokes and the occasional hum of the bathroom fan.
By the time I finish, her hair is tangle-free, but still with those tight, gorgeous curls like her brother’s.
Riley watches in the mirror as I gather her hair and twist it into two small buns, one on each side of her head, securing them carefully.
"There," I say, stepping back so she can see the full effect. "What do you think?"
Riley touches one of the buns carefully, then the other, her fingers gentle like she's afraid they might fall apart. Something like a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "It's nice."
"Your mom taught you well."
"Thanks for helping."
"Anytime, Riley."
Riley retreats to her room with a book after that, and I head back downstairs to finish prepping the side dish, chopping the last of the vegetables. I've just slid it into the oven alongside the lasagna when Riley comes back downstairs, moving slower than usual.
"Hey." I set down my knife and wipe my hands on the dish towel. "You okay?"
She shrugs, most likely meaning no, but she doesn't want to talk about it. Then, so quietly I almost miss it, "Do you know how to dance?"
The question surprises me. "A little bit. Why?"
"Mama used to dance with us when we were sad. She said it was the best way to shake off the bad feelings." Riley's voice wavers slightly, her eyes dropping to her feet instead of at me. "But nobody dances anymore."
My heart aches for her, for both of these kids, for three Alphas so lost in their own grief they've forgotten how to help their children through theirs. Dancing away the sadness. What a beautiful thing Evie must have been.
"We should fix that," I say, making the decision quickly before I can second-guess myself. "Want to wake up your brother and have a dance party?"
Riley's face doesn't exactly light up, but some of the heaviness lifts from her expression. "Really?"
"Really. Go wake up your brother. I'll find some music."
I pull up a playlist on my phone while Riley crosses to her brother, something upbeat and kid-friendly that won't give anyone a headache. Some part of me wonders what Hunter will do when he hears it, but this isn’t about that Alpha.
It’s about the kids and giving them what they need.
Still, I message Hunter anyway, letting him know that we’re playing some music so it doesn’t come as a surprise.
I turn the volume up just loud enough to fill the living room, Riley shaking Isaac awake gently.
He sits straight up, confused and grumpy for about three seconds before he figures out what's happening.
Then he scrambles to his feet, jumping and spinning with the kind of boundless energy only a four-year-old can have after almost-napping.
I start dancing, feeling ridiculous and self-conscious at first, but the kids don't care about my lack of rhythm or coordination.
Riley moves stiffly, like she's forgotten how her body is supposed to move to music, but she's trying.
Isaac is pure chaos in motion, all flailing limbs and uncoordinated giggles.
I spin them both around, holding their hands and making up silly moves that have no business being called dancing.
And that’s when I catch Riley smiling. A real, genuine smile that transforms her whole face and makes her look like the carefree six-year-old she should be.
Isaac’s giggles fill the room as Riley steps up closer to me, gripping my hand a little tighter. Another step forward. The door opens, my first instinct to stop but Riley just shakes her head. “It’s just Dad. Keep going. Maybe he’ll dance, too.”
I realize that this moment isn’t all for us, that Riley has seen her fathers and her uncle and wants to bring some of the happiness back into this house as well. The problem is that I don’t know how I feel about an Alpha in my space, even ones who Dylan trusts.
But, I try anyway, continuing to move, a little stiffer than before, suddenly aware that Wyatt’s watching from the foyer. His citrus scent hits my nose, fraying my nerves a little as he steps closer. "Are we having a party without me?"
"Daddy!" Isaac shrieks, launching himself across the room. Wyatt catches him easily, swinging him up and around while Isaac squeals with pure delight. Wyatt sets Isaac down and holds out his hand to Riley with exaggerated formality. "May I have this dance?"
Riley rolls her eyes, but she takes his hand without hesitation. He spins her in a careful circle, Riley’s smile widening even further. The happiness on her face is worth everything.
"Your hair looks beautiful, sweetheart," Wyatt says softly, noticing the two neat buns for the first time. "Did you do that yourself?"
"Miss Amelia helped me," Riley admits, her cheeks reddening slightly.
Wyatt's eyes find mine across the room, something warm flashing across his face before he extends his other hand toward me. "Don't think you're getting out of this."
My heart stutters in my chest. Dancing with the kids is one thing.
Dancing with an Alpha is something else entirely, something that crosses lines I've been trying so hard to maintain.
But Isaac runs over to tug me toward Wyatt, Riley watching with those hopeful eyes, it feels like a crime to say no.
I suck my bottom lip beneath my teeth, warring with my emotions as Wyatt makes a small, barely there sound that breaks my resolve.
A purr. The Alpha standing in front of me just purred.
For me. I don’t even know what to do with that because I’ve never heard that sound directed at me before from an Alpha. Hesitantly, I take his hand.
He spins me like he spun the kids, and for one brief moment, I forget to be afraid. I forget about Vincent and trauma and all the very good reasons I should keep my distance from these Alphas.
I just dance.
The song ends too soon, leaving all four of us panting and smiling.
Wyatt looks at me with such warmth in his blue eyes that I have to look away, heat flooding my cheeks.
That's when the terror comes flooding back in because it’s the same way Vincent looked at me in the beginning, before everything went wrong.
Before the charm turned to control and the gentleness turned to cruelty and I learned that warm looks can hide cold intentions.
I step back, trying to keep the smile plastered on my face even though my heart is hammering against my ribs hard enough to hurt.
I clasp my hands behind my back where no one can see them shaking.
Breathe. Just breathe. He's not Vincent.
This isn't that, I try telling myself. But my body doesn't care about logic or reason.
All it knows is that feelings are dangerous, and I'm dangerously close to feeling something.
Wyatt's expression shifts from warm to confused, his smile faltering as he tries to understand the sudden change. "Amelia?"
"Dinner." My voice comes out a little too high. I clear my throat and point toward the kitchen, still trying to maintain my smile. "Dinner is in the oven. You just have to take it out in about thirty minutes, and it'll be ready."
"You're leaving?" Isaac's face falls, the disappointment in his expression making me feel like the worst person in the world.
"Dylan is coming to pick me up," I explain, hating how the words taste like lies even though they're technically true. "My uh... You said you just needed me until dinner, right?"
Wyatt follows me to the kitchen, leaving the kids in the living room with instructions to tidy up their toys. "Will you stay for dinner? You made it, after all. Seems only fair you get to enjoy it too."
His voice is soft with hope, and that somehow makes it so much worse. I can't handle his hope, can't handle the way he looks at me like I might say yes.
"I can't." The words tumble out, desperation coating them. "Dylan is on his way and—"
As if summoned by the conversation, the front door opens. "Amelia? You ready to go?"
"In here!" I call back, grabbing my bag from where I left it near the door.
Dylan appears in the kitchen doorway with Maddox right behind him, both of them still in their PT gear from the base.
They must have come straight here without stopping home first. Dylan takes one look at my face and his expression shifts to concern, but he doesn't say anything.
He knows better than to push when I'm like this.
Wyatt doesn't push either, which I'm grateful for even as part of me wishes he would. Instead, he turns to Dylan with an easy smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Hey, man. Convince your sister to stay for dinner. She made it, after all. Would be a shame to miss out."
Dylan looks between us, reading the tension in the room with the accuracy of someone who's known me my whole life. Then he looks at me, letting me make the call.
I'm about to say no, about to insist we need to leave right now, when Dylan steps forward and kisses the side of my head. The gesture is so familiar, so completely devoid of any expectation that some of the panic in my chest eases just a fraction.
"I think we could swing that," Dylan whispers, and I want to strangle him and hug him at the same time. "It's been too long since I've had your cooking, sis. We're definitely staying."
I swallow nervously, trapped between my need to run and my complete inability to disappoint my brother. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, painfully aware that everyone in this kitchen is watching me, reading my discomfort, and probably drawing their own conclusions about what a mess I am.
But Dylan said he’d help me become who I used to be again and I can only think that maybe this is a step in the right direction. It’s just a dinner with his friends and I already know I’ll like the lasagna. I did it. So, it’s fine.
"Okay," I whisper, the word barely audible. "We'll stay."