Chapter 7
The bright afternoon light made Victor feel as if he were standing under a spotlight, every flaw revealed his lack of control obvious to the other occupants of the town as they went around their daily chores.
Control. The word echoed through his mind, a mantra beaten into him since childhood. Control or lose everything.
Hyde snarled beneath his skin, still fighting for dominance, and flooding his veins with territorial fury. The werewolf’s scent still lingered in the air—amber musk and presumption—and Hyde wanted blood for the audacity. Mine, Hyde growled. Ours. Protect. CLAIM.
His hands shook as he gripped her grocery bags.
His hands never shook. He tightened his grip and the plastic handles bit into his palms, the small pain anchoring him as he focused on breathing.
Focused on the cool October air filling his lungs and the faint scent of woodsmoke, on anything except the scent of vanilla and warm skin that was all Chloe.
He heard her footsteps as she followed him outside, lighter than they should be for a woman six months pregnant, and Hyde tracked every step with precision of a predator. Run, he thought desperately. Don’t come any closer.
But she didn’t run.
“Victor,” she said softly, and the sound of his name made Hyde settle a little despite the alarm bells ringing in his mind. She shouldn’t say his name like that, as if she knew him, trusted him.
He forced himself to turn. “I apologize for my behavior. That was—” Inexcusable. Dangerous. Exactly what his Father had warned him about. “—inappropriate.”
She was standing right behind him, one hand resting on her rounded belly and the sunlight catching sparks of gold in her brown hair.
Her eyes were warm and curious, but not afraid.
Why wasn’t she afraid of him? Even if his behavior hadn’t horrified her, his sensitive hearing had picked up Jasper’s warning.
She gave a half-shrug. “He was being flirty. You didn’t like it.”
“I don’t like anyone harassing a pregnant woman,” he said. The explanation sounded logical, reasonable even, but they both knew it didn’t explain the possessive rage that had rolled through the store. “He should have known better.”
“He didn’t know I was your patient.”
Yes. Mine.
His gaze dropped to her stomach, then back to her face. “It wouldn’t matter.”
The air between them thickened. It would have been so easy to close the distance, to pull those soft curves into his arms and kiss her. To taste her.
“Victor?” Her voice was a soft caress, the question in her tone making him ache. “What did Jasper mean when he called you Jekyll?”
“It’s a stupid nickname.”
“But it’s based on something. Is it like the story?”
“Yes and no. There is a part of me that is more… primal. That knows only what it feels, rage usually.” And desire, and an impossible protectiveness for the small human in front of him. He held up the grocery bags, creating a physical barrier between them. “Your keys.”
“Right.” A pretty pink bloomed in her cheeks, and she dug through her purse. The small click of the remote unlocking the car was shockingly loud in the quiet afternoon. He opened the trunk and started to place the bags carefully inside, but she interrupted him, reaching for one of the bags.
“Not that one. That’s my lunch.”
“You’re going back to work?” He hadn’t meant to ask, but the question escaped, sharp-edged with frustration. Stubborn. Reckless. Beautiful.
She lifted her chin and gave him a defiant look. “Yes. I am. That isn’t going to change.”
His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, fighting the urge to reach out, to smooth the loose strand of hair from her temple, to rest his palm on her belly and feel the life growing there.
She’s not mine. She can never be mine.
“You should avoid lifting—”
“Heavy things, I know.” She shook her head, her smile returning. “You mentioned that. Several times.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” Her expression softened. “It’s sweet.”
Sweet. Hyde purred at the word, but he wanted to shake her.
“It’s not sweet. It’s basic prenatal care. Your center of gravity has shifted, and lifting overhead or bending to lift from the ground puts undue stress on—”
“Victor.” She stepped closer, and he went rigid. Every instinct screamed at him to move—toward or away, he couldn’t tell. The scent of her wrapped around him, warm and sweet and right. Hyde went still, watching her.
“Thank you.” She rose on her toes, and his mind went blank.
Soft lips brushed his cheek in a brief warm contact.
The kiss couldn’t have lasted two seconds, but it seared through him like lightning, shorting out every carefully constructed defense.
Hyde roared in triumph and it took every ounce of control he had not to turn his head and capture her mouth, to take the kiss she’d offered and make it his own.
Before he could move, she settled back on her heels, cheeks pink, eyes bright.
“For helping with the groceries,” she explained, as if she hadn’t just shattered his world. “And for the concern.”
He couldn’t speak. He just stood there, the phantom feel of her lips burning on his skin.
“Well.” She gave a little wave, looking as flustered as he felt. “I should get back. Lots of history to sort.”
She turned and walked away, her hips swaying gently in a way that made his mouth go dry.
He watched until she disappeared inside Town Hall, his body still thrumming with unspent energy and a fierce, desperate longing.
He finally remembered to close her trunk, moving with extraordinary care in case his strength damaged the small vehicle.
One hand rose automatically to touch his cheek where her lips had been. Hyde churned beneath the surface, delighted by the gentle contact but wanting more, wanting everything.
What just happened?
“Well, well. Someone’s got it bad.”
The impish voice cut through his abstraction and he spun around to find Flora grinning up at him.
She wore a hot pink tracksuit today with the slogan Stirring the Pot written beneath a witch’s cauldron made of black sequins.
Her white curls caught the afternoon light like a halo, which was deeply ironic considering her couldn’t imagine anyone less angelic.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, and she rolled her eyes.
“Oh, please. Then why are you standing here looking like someone hit you with a brick? A very pretty, pregnant brick.”
“She’s a patient,” he said stiffly.
“Of course she is. And are you attending to her… needs? All of them?” Flora waggled her eyebrows at him.
He bit back a growl as the thought of Chloe’s needs—specifically the ones that involved him, a bed, and no clothing—sent another jolt through him. “My relationship with Miss Bennington is strictly professional.”
“If you say so.” Flora sighed, her face turning unusually serious for a moment. “Listen to me, Victor. No one can be in control all the time. Sometimes you need to let go a little.”
His head snapped up. “That’s exactly what I don’t need.”
“Your father really did a number on you, didn’t he? But his problem wasn’t that he lost control. It was that he had no one to ground him. You have to trust someone eventually,” she said softly. “And I think the universe just handed you that someone.”
‘What if I hurt her?” The question emerged before he could stop it, and she shook her head.
“Hyde doesn’t want to hurt her. He wants to wrap her in bubble wrap and growl at anyone who looks at her sideways. That’s not dangerous. That’s protective. There is a difference.”
He wanted to argue with her. He wanted to list all the reasons he needed to stay away from Chloe Bennington and her warm brown eyes and her fearless smile, but Hyde had gone quiet, listening.
And some part of him—the part that had felt right for the first time in years when Chloe’s lips brushed his cheek—wanted to believe her.
Then, as if the moment of seriousness had never happened, Flora fluffed her curls and cackled merrily. “Now, I’d love to stay and chat, but Gladys and I are having a bake-off for the Harvest Festival, and my gingerbread-men with licorice-whip bondage gear are not going to decorate themselves.”
Licorice-whip bondage gear?
She patted his arm and sauntered off, her pink tracksuit glowing in the afternoon light, and he stared after her, his mind still reeling from her words.
Allow himself to lose control? No. Never.
But he stood there a moment longer, his cheek still tingling where Chloe had kissed it and Hyde churning restlessly beneath his skin.
Go to her, Hyde urged. Alone. Follow. Protect.
“No.” He forced his feet to move in the opposite direction, towards his house instead. “We can’t.”
Why?
Because he was his father’s son. Because despite what Flora had said, if Hyde broke free he would destroy everything he valued.
He climbed the porch steps and let himself in, locking the door behind him, the click of the deadbolt echoing in the empty hallway. He hadn’t had any patients this afternoon and Petal had already gone home. The house felt abandoned.
He climbed the stairs to his living quarters and found everything exactly as he’d left it—neat, ordered, sterile.
His books were organized by subject on the built-in shelves that lined one of the walls.
His medical journals were stacked precisely on the coffee table.
There wasn’t a dish in the sink or a cushion out of place.
It was a scientist’s house. A lonely male’s house.
He looked down at his hands. They were still shaking, and Hyde still pressed against his control, frustrated and restless. He needed his treadmill and an injection of the suppression drug he’d been working on. But first, he needed to remember why he had to remain in control.
He walked down the hallway to the small back bedroom and opened the closet. On the top shelf, behind a tidy collection of winter sweaters and extra blankets, sat a metal lockbox. He pulled it down and looked at it for a long moment before dialing in the combination for the lock.
The box was full of photographs. There was one of his mother, young and smiling, holding baby Victor. There were family dinners and Christmas mornings, birthday parties and a rare, special fishing trip. But beneath them were the others.
His mother’s face, older now, wearing an expression he had learned to recognize—careful neutrality masking fear.
Another where she was pressed against the wall while his father loomed over her, his eyes blazing green.
The back door torn from its frame where Hyde had broken through.
He had taken the photographs in secret, determined to prove to someone—anyone—that they needed help.
But who did you call when the monster was also the town doctor? When he saved lives by day and terrorized his family by night? And when part of you still loved him and remembered when he was different?
Another photograph—this one showing his mother’s bruised wrist before she’d quickly covered it with her sleeve.
She’d claimed she’d fallen. Everyone had believed her, or pretended to.
It had been taken two weeks before she left.
She hadn’t told him she was leaving, hadn’t tried to take him with her, and he knew why.
He carried his father’s blood, his father’s curse.
I’m not him, he told himself, but he’d lost control in the store.
He’d growled at a werewolf over a woman who wasn’t his and could never be his, who shouldn’t be anywhere near him.
What if he’d hurt Jasper, or frightened Chloe?
Except she hadn’t been frightened. She’d followed him outside and smiled at him.
She’d even kissed his cheek. His hand drifted back to that spot.
She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand the danger.
He closed the lockbox and returned it to the shelf. He would just have to stay away from her outside of her appointments, and he would keep those brief and professional.
Alone, Hyde protested.
“She’s safe alone. Safer than with us.”
Needs—
“It doesn’t matter what she needs,” he said harshly to the empty room. “We’re not the answer.”
Hyde went silent, sulking, but he ignored him, heading for the basement where his treadmill waited.
He’d run until his legs gave out, then inject enough suppression serum to quiet Hyde for a few hours.
Maybe then he could sleep without dreaming of warm brown eyes and vanilla scent.
Maybe then he could forget the feel of her lips on his cheek, soft and trusting and utterly, devastatingly wrong.
But even as his feet pounded the treadmill and sweat soaked his shirt, even as his muscles screamed and his lungs burned, one thought circled endlessly through his mind: Chloe was alone in that cabin.
Alone, pregnant, with winter coming and no one to check on her.
And despite everything—despite his father’s legacy and his own fears and the very real danger he posed—some treacherous part of him wanted to be the one who made sure she was safe.
The part that was still standing by her car, his fingers touching his cheek where she’d kissed him, watching her cross over to the Town Hall. The part that whispered mine in both Hyde’s voice and his own, until he couldn’t tell which was which anymore.
Control, he reminded himself, pushing harder, running faster. But for the first time in his life, the word felt less like a shield and more like a cage.