Chapter 12 #2
“Not physically.” He turned back to face her, and the pain in his blue eyes was almost unbearable to witness.
“But the fear did damage. My mother learned to be careful. To monitor his moods. To keep everything calm and controlled. She loved him. I know she did. But she was also always just a little bit afraid.”
“And you don’t want that for me.”
“I don’t want that for anyone.” He moved closer, and she could see the war in his expression—want battling with responsibility. “Especially not you. Especially not when you’re already vulnerable.”
Chloe slid off the examination table, closing the distance between them. “I’m not vulnerable. I’m pregnant. There’s a difference.”
“Chloe—”
“And I’m not your mother.” She reached up, pressing her hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath her palm. “I’m not going to spend my life walking on eggshells, waiting for you to lose control. Because I don’t think you will.”
His hand came up to cover hers, pressing it harder against his chest. “You can’t know that.”
“Maybe not. But I know you’ve spent your entire adult life proving you can maintain control.
I know you’ve developed suppressants and protocols and contingency plans.
I know you avoid crowds not because you’re afraid of hurting strangers, but because you’re afraid of giving people a reason to fear you.
” She looked up at him, willing him to hear her.
“That’s not the behavior of someone dangerous.
That’s the behavior of someone who cares too much. ”
His eyes flashed green. “The caring is what makes it dangerous.”
“Or maybe it’s what makes it worth the risk. I’m willing to take that chance. The question is whether you are.”
His free hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone with devastating gentleness. “You should be running.”
“I don’t want to run. I want—” She stopped herself, suddenly uncertain.
“What do you want?” His voice was low, almost a growl.
The truth bubbled up before she could stop it. “I want to see where this goes. I want to know if what I feel when you kiss me is real. I want to stop being afraid of wanting things.”
His thumb stilled on her cheek. “Chloe…”
“I know it’s complicated. I know you’re scared.
But so am I.” She pressed closer, until the baby bump nestled between them, a reminder of all the risks she was already taking.
“I’m terrified of getting hurt again. Of letting someone in and having them decide I’m not worth the effort.
But I think you’re worth trying for. Worth being brave for. ”
For a long moment, he just stared at her, his expression torn between hope and fear.
Then he bent his head and kissed her.
It was softer than the kiss in his office, less desperate but no less affecting. His lips moved over hers with careful precision, like he was memorizing her. Learning her.
She melted into him, her hands sliding up to loop around his neck. The angle was awkward with her belly between them, but somehow that made it sweeter. More real.
He tasted like coffee and mint, and when his tongue swept against hers, she made a small sound that had him pulling her closer.
His hands were growing. She could feel it—the subtle shift as Hyde pushed closer to the surface, making him larger, stronger. But he held her like she was made of glass, every touch reverent.
She broke the kiss to murmur against his lips, “I’m not afraid.”
“You should be.” But his arms tightened fractionally, contradicting the words.
“Too bad.” She kissed him again, quick and sweet. “You’re stuck with me.”
He made a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.” She smiled against his mouth. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
For a moment longer he held her, his forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in. Then he stepped back, his hands dropping to his sides. His eyes were still glowing faintly green, but his expression had shifted into something that looked almost like determination.
“I should finish your examination.”
The prosaic words were so at odds with the emotion in his eyes that she almost laughed. “Right. Very professional.”
“I’m trying.” The corner of his mouth twitched.
She let him help her back onto the table, hyperaware of how his hands lingered just a fraction longer than necessary. How his eyes tracked her every movement.
The rest of the appointment passed in a haze of professional efficiency undercut by electric awareness.
Every time he touched her, her pulse jumped.
Every time their eyes met, something hot and sweet sparked between them.
By the time he finished and handed her the printout of the baby’s latest measurements, she felt like she’d run a marathon.
“Everything looks good,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “The baby’s developing right on schedule.”
“Good.” She took the paper, their fingers brushing. “Thank you.”
“Chloe.” He stopped her before she could leave, his hand catching her wrist. “I meant what I said about the danger.”
“I know.”
“But I also—” He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. “I want to try. If you’re willing to be patient. To let me figure out how to do this without hurting you.”
Hope bloomed warm in her chest. “I can be patient.”
“And if I ask you to trust me? Even when I’m being impossible?”
“I already do.” She turned her hand in his grip, threading their fingers together. “Even when you’re being impossible.”
His thumb stroked over her knuckles, a small gesture that sent warmth flooding through her. “I should let you go.”
“You should.” But neither of them moved.
Finally, she squeezed his hand once and stepped away. “I’ll see you at my next appointment?”
“Yes. And—” He hesitated. “Maybe before then. If you’d like.”
The shy hopefulness in his voice made her smile. “I’d like that.”
She left the clinic feeling lighter than she had in days.
The phone rang just after nine that evening.
She grabbed it from her nightstand, expecting Ginger or maybe Flora checking in on her. Instead, Victor’s name glowed on the screen.
Her heart stuttered.
“Hello?”
“Did I wake you?” His voice was low, concerned.
“No. I was reading.” She settled back against the pillows, suddenly aware that she was wearing an old maternity nightgown and her hair was in a messy bun. Not that he could see her. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I just—” A pause. “I wanted to hear your voice.”
The confession made her chest tight. “Oh.”
“I’ve been reading the journal.”
“And?”
“And I think I owe my great-grandfather an apology. For assuming his relationship with his Hyde was the same as my father’s.” He sounded thoughtful “There are entries about learning to listen. About integration instead of suppression. About treating the guardian as a partner rather than a threat.”
She curled onto her side, the phone pressed to her ear. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s terrifying.” A soft huff that might have been a laugh. “Everything I learned from my father contradicts what Thaddeus wrote. And if he was right—if integration is possible—then I’ve spent twenty years doing everything wrong.”
“Or you’ve spent twenty years learning control, which might be exactly what you needed to learn first.” She thought about the way he held her. The careful strength in his hands even when Hyde was close to the surface. “Maybe you had to master suppression before you could risk integration.”
Silence on the other end before he said quietly, “That’s… an interesting perspective.”
“I’m full of interesting perspectives. Comes from being a librarian.”
“Archivist.”
“Same skillset.” She smiled at the gentle correction. “Tell me more about what the journal says.”
And he did. His voice flowed over her in the darkness, reading passages from his great-grandfather’s careful script.
Stories about Hyde emerging to save lives.
Accounts of learning to recognize the guardian’s protective instincts versus actual threats.
Observations about how love made control easier, not harder, because it gave the Hyde something worth protecting.
She listened, asking occasional questions, offering observations. The conversation meandered from the journal to other things—his day at the clinic, her progress in the archives, the reference she’d found to her ancestor delivering twins during a blizzard.
“You’re related to Clara Bennington?” He sounded surprised. “She was a legend. Saved half the town during the influenza epidemic of 1918.”
“Really?” She felt a warm glow of pride. “The records just said she was a midwife.”
“The records undersell her significantly. She worked herself to exhaustion during that epidemic, treating humans and Others without distinction. There’s a plaque in the historical society with her name on it.”
“I had no idea.” She thought about the brief mention in the journal—C. Bennington departed for Boston—and wondered what had driven her ancestor to leave. “I wonder why she left.”
“Probably the same reason most people left in those days. Opportunity. Adventure.” He paused. “Or maybe she fell in love with someone who couldn’t stay.”
The wistfulness in his tone made her chest ache. “You’re a romantic.”
“I’m a realist who occasionally reads poetry.” A smile in his voice. “There’s a difference.”
“What kind of poetry?”
“Whatever’s on hand. Petal keeps leaving books in the clinic. Romance novels, mostly, but occasionally there’s a poetry collection mixed in.”
She laughed, delighted by the image of stern, controlled Victor reading romance novels between patients. “And? Do you like them?”
“Some of them are… surprisingly well-written.” He sounded embarrassed. “And I’ll admit the novels have given me some interesting insights into human courtship rituals.”
“Human courtship rituals?”
“The protagonists always seem to engage in elaborate miscommunication before admitting their feelings. It’s remarkably inefficient.”
“Says the man who apologized for kissing me and then avoided me for three days.”
“Point taken,” he said ruefully
She grinned into the darkness. “Besides, the miscommunication is part of the appeal. The tension. The wondering.”
“I dislike tension.”
“I’ve noticed.” She shifted on the bed, getting comfortable. “What else have you noticed from the romance novels?”
“That grand gestures are apparently important. And that the male leads tend to be either broodingly overprotective or charmingly roguish. I’m not sure which category I fall into.”
“Definitely brooding. Though you have moments of charm.”
“Only moments?” He sounded amused.
“You’re working on it.”
They talked until her eyelids grew heavy and her words started to slur with exhaustion. She didn’t want to hang up and lose the warm intimacy of his voice in her ear, the gentle back-and-forth that felt like the beginning of something real.
“You’re falling asleep,” he said softly.
“Not yet.” A yawn betrayed her.
“Chloe. You need to rest.”
“So do you.”
“I will. After you hang up and go to sleep properly.”
She smiled into the pillow. “Bossy.”
“Doctor’s orders.” His voice was warm with affection. “Sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow if you’d like.”
“I’d like that.” Her eyes drifted closed. “Victor?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For trying. For calling. For being willing to—” She yawned again, losing the thread of the thought.
“Sleep, Chloe.”
“Mmm. Night.”
“Goodnight.”
She ended the call and set the phone on the nightstand, burrowing into the blankets with a contentment she hadn’t felt in months.
He was trying, reading the journal and questioning his assumptions. And he’d called just to hear her voice.
In the darkness, the baby shifted, pressing tiny limbs against her ribs. She rested her hand on her belly, feeling the flutter of movement.
“He’s worth it,” she whispered to her unborn child. “I think he’s worth the risk.”
The baby kicked once, as if in agreement.
She fell asleep smiling, his voice still echoing in her mind, warm and real and full of careful hope.