Chapter 10 Amelia
Amelia
It's been years since I've sat at a full table like this. Definitely not since before Vincent, back when family dinners were normal instead of minefields of potential mistakes.
I pull the lasagna out of the oven, steam rising from the bubbling cheese, filling the kitchen with the smell of garlic, tomato, and herbs. I made it the way my mom used to, layering the noodles, ricotta, and meat sauce with care, trying to remember the exact proportions she always used.
Everyone gathers around the table, the kids scrambling into their seats while the adults arrange themselves in what seems like practiced positions.
Dylan sits on one side of me, Maddox on the other, creating a protective barrier that I'm grateful for even if I don't want to need it.
Hunter takes the head of the table, Wyatt at the other head, and Silas between the kids across from us.
I start to serve everyone, though Wyatt takes over after a few seconds, Dylan laughing at how easily the Alphas step up when it comes to their kids. It’s not lost on me that Hunter barely receives any, Wyatt throwing him a glare before helping everyone else.
And I just watch.
The conversation starts flowing easily between my brother, Maddox, and the others, each of them adding their own commentary and jokes like it’s just another day. Even Hunter contributes occasionally, his deep voice rumbling through the chaos.
I curl into myself a little, making myself smaller between my brother and his mate, trying to figure out how all these pieces fit together.
How Dylan and Silas move around each other with the ease of people who've known each other for years, finishing each other's sentences.
How Maddox balances Dylan's energy with quiet support.
How the three Alphas interact with each other, the way Wyatt teases Hunter, Silas mediates, and Hunter grounds them both.
It's beautiful, seeing a pack function with people who care about each other and navigate the daily chaos of life together.
Then the conversation shifts, morphing into heavier topics. Someone mentions Evie, maybe Silas or Wyatt. The Alphas' expressions shift, becoming softer, more pained. They start sharing memories, stories about her that make the kids smile, even as their eyes glaze over with tears.
"She couldn't cook to save her life," Wyatt says with a fond laugh that sounds more sad than amused. "Remember when she tried to make pot roast. She somehow managed to set the smoke alarm off three times?"
"She insisted it was the oven's fault," Silas adds, smiling despite the tears gathering in his eyes. "Said it was running too hot."
"It wasn't," Hunter says quietly. "She just forgot to add liquid and tried to cover it by blaming the appliance."
Riley giggles, slapping a hand over her mouth. The sound is so unexpected that everyone stops to look at her. "Mama was really bad at cooking. But she made the best sandwiches."
"She did," Hunter agrees, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder. He pauses, noticing the buns for the first time tonight. "Your hair looks beautiful tonight, sweetheart. Did you do something different?"
Riley touches one of the buns self-consciously. "Miss Amelia helped me brush it. We put it in buns."
"Well, it's very pretty," Silas says, smiling at his daughter. His eyes flick to me briefly, something grateful in his expression.
Dylan clears his throat, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.
"Our mom had really curly hair, too. Even curlier than Riley's, actually.
Spent years teaching Amelia how to take care of hers properly.
" He nudges my shoulder gently. "It took a little while when we lost our parents and I had to figure out how to do it but now Amelia’s a natural.
Mom used to say you had the gentlest hands. "
My throat tightens at the memory. I'd forgotten that. "She was patient with me too," I manage to push out.
I try to keep my smile in place, managing to look appropriately sympathetic and engaged. But there's a tightness building in my chest. All this grief and loss is pressing down on me and mixing with my own pain until it's hard to breathe properly.
I watch Riley and Isaac eating, trying to focus on something concrete.
Isaac has given up on his fork entirely, eating with his hands now and getting sauce all over his face.
He makes sound effects with each bite, little "mmm" noises, and giggles, obviously enjoying himself.
Riley is more careful with her fork, but she's also kicking her feet under the table in a restless rhythm that makes her chair squeak.
It's just so much chaos. So much noise. The scrape of forks against plates, the sound of conversation overlapping, someone's phone buzzing, the refrigerator humming. All of it building into this overwhelming wall of sound that makes me feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.
Noise was never good with Vincent. Noise meant I wasn't paying attention.
Noise meant I was being disrespectful, not focusing on him, or letting myself get distracted.
He'd slam his hand down on the table to get my attention.
He'd throw things when the noise got to be too much for him.
Somehow, it was always my fault for not controlling the environment better.
My breathing kicks up, getting faster and shallower, the panic starting to build at the edges of my consciousness. I'm trying so hard to keep my emotions under control and not ruin this dinner that's actually going pretty well. But I can’t do. The. Noise.
Dylan's hand finds mine under the table, his fingers wrapping around my trembling ones, pulling me back from the edge of panic. I glance at my brother, offering him a small smile of relief before looking around the table. For some reason, Hunter catches my attention and his mostly full plate still in front of him. He’s pushed the food around a bit, moved it from one side to the other, but he hasn't actually eaten more than a bite or two since we sat down.
I frown, worry cutting through my own anxiety. "Why aren't you eating?" The question comes out before I can stop it, before I can think about whether it's appropriate for the nanny to question the head Alpha. "Is it not good? Should I make something else?"
Hunter looks up, surprise flickering across his face. "I'm not hungry."
The response feels like something he probably says every time someone asks. But before I can respond, Wyatt makes a low growling sound in his throat that's definitely a warning.
"Don't mind him," Wyatt says, looking at me instead of Hunter, even though his words are clearly directed at his fellow Alpha. "He doesn't eat a lot these days."
The casual way he says it, like it's just a quirk instead of a serious problem, makes something protective flare in my chest. These Alphas are slowly destroying themselves with grief and nobody's doing anything about it.
"Right. Okay," I say, because what else can I say? I'm just the nanny. I don't get to have opinions about their health.
Hunter’s brows furrow a little as he stares at me with those intense hazel eyes.
Something passes across his face, some emotion I can't quite read.
Then, slowly, he picks up his fork and takes a bite.
Then another. He eats mechanically, without seeming to taste anything, but he eats.
He clears his plate, setting his fork down with a soft clink when he's finished.
Then he offers me a small smile, the motion transforming his whole face. "It's really good. Thank you."
I merely nod, not sure what else to say because somehow it feels like I’ve made another step forward but this time it’s with the Alphas of the house and not their kids.
The conversation picks back up as Hunter stands, grabbing his plate to take it to the sink. Maddox gets up too, his own plate in hand, heading to the sink as well. I relax a little, squeezing Dylan’s hand beneath the table when the evening takes a turn for the worse.
Maddox's elbow catches the edge of a glass sitting on the counter. It tips, wobbles, and then falls, crashing to the floor in an explosion of sound.
For a split second, I'm not in the Kane house anymore.
I'm in Vincent's apartment. He's just thrown a glass at the wall next to my head because I said something wrong, did something wrong, or maybe just existed wrong.
The crash of shattering glass meant danger.
Pain. It meant that I needed to make myself as small as possible and hope he'd calm down before things got worse.
A raw, terrified sound tears out of my throat, my body moving on pure instinct as I drop to the floor, covering my head with my arms. I'm under the table before I consciously decide to move, curling into myself, trembling so hard my teeth are chattering.
My heart pounds in my ears, my breathing coming in harsh gasps that burn my lungs.
I'm dimly aware that everyone has frozen, that the conversation has stopped, and that there are voices saying my name.
But I can't process any of it. I can only hold myself, rocking back and forth, trying to make myself smaller so that I can disappear.
I tense the moment Wyatt’s scent brushes my noise and I hold my breath, bracing for pain that I know logically isn't coming, but my body expects anyway.
This is when Vincent would grab me, haul me up, shake me, and demand to know what was wrong with me, why I always had to be so dramatic, why I couldn't just be normal.
"Back off for a second, fuck."
Dylan's voice cuts through my panic, the citrus scent retreating. "Hey, sis." Dylan's voice moves closer now. "It's just me, okay? That was a glass. Just a glass that fell. An accident. He's not here. Vincent's not here. He's not getting here. You're safe."
I look up slowly, my tear-stricken face feeling hot. From beneath the table, I can see that everyone is standing frozen around the kitchen, save for Dylan, who’s crouched inches from me. The shame is almost worse than the panic.
"I would like to go home, please." My voice comes out small and broken, nothing like how I want to sound. Nothing like a functioning adult who can handle being a nanny.
"Absolutely," Dylan says immediately, no hesitation in his voice. "Can you walk?"
I nod, even though I'm not entirely sure it's true. My legs feel like jelly, my whole body shaking with aftershocks of adrenaline and fear. But I need to get out of here before I humiliate myself further.
I push to my feet, keeping my eyes down, unable to see the pity or concern or worse, the realization that I'm too broken to be around their kids. My voice is barely a whisper when I speak. "I'm sorry for ruining dinner."
"You didn't—" someone starts, maybe Silas or Wyatt, but I just shake my head.
Maddox is suddenly at my other side, hovering but not touching.
"Mads is going to take you home, alright?" Dylan says. "I'll be right there."
I nod again, clinging to Maddox's arm when he offers it. I'm vaguely aware of the kids asking questions and Dylan explaining something as we move toward the door.
The cool evening air helps a little to calm me, cutting through some of the panic fog.
But I feel sick to my stomach with humiliation, shame, and the crushing weight of my own brokenness.
I can't even sit through a normal dinner without falling apart.
How am I supposed to take care of anyone else when I can barely take care of myself?
I haven't had a bad reaction like that in days. I thought I was getting better. But apparently, all it takes is one unexpected sound, and I'm right back to being that terrified woman cowering on the floor.
Maddox guides me to the car, opening the passenger door, and helping me inside.
He gets in the driver's seat and starts the engine, but doesn't put the car in drive yet.
Instead, he turns to look at me. "Just breathe with me, okay?
" His voice is soft, his breathing exaggerated and slow, so I can follow along.
"In through your nose, out through your mouth. There you go. That's good."
I try to match his rhythm, forcing my panicked gasps into something more controlled.
It takes several attempts, but gradually my breathing starts to even out.
The shaking doesn't stop, but it lessens to something manageable.
"I'm not sure I can go back," I whisper, voicing the fear that's been growing since I got up from under that table.
"I can't do this. They need someone who can actually handle things. "
"We're going to figure all that out after we get you back in your nest," Maddox says firmly, putting the car in reverse. "Right now, we're just focused on getting you home safe."
They'll find someone else. Someone better. Someone whole.
"Your only job right now," Maddox continues, "is thinking about what color pajamas you're going to change into. Just think about that. Nothing else. Just pajamas."
It's such a simple thing, such a mundane focus, but it works. I close my eyes, picturing my pajamas. The soft blue ones with the clouds. The pink set with the shorts. The oversized t-shirt I stole from Dylan years ago.
Just pajamas.
I can do that.
I can think about pajamas.