Chapter 13
Victor’s hand trembled as he poured the coffee.
Three weeks, he thought, watching the dark liquid stream into two mugs. Three weeks of talking to her every night. Three weeks of wanting.
The tremor worsened, and coffee slopped over the rim, pooling on the counter.
“Damn it.”
He set the pot down with excessive care and reached for a towel.
Behind his ribs, Hyde stirred—restless, prowling, increasingly difficult to contain.
The suppressant wasn’t working anymore. Or rather, it was working exactly as well as it had always worked against stress and fear.
But desire was a different beast entirely, and Chloe made him want with an intensity that defied every protocol he’d developed.
His phone buzzed with a text from Peta letting him know that Mrs. Henderson had rescheduled and he was free until two. He stared at the message, then at the clock. Eleven-fifteen. Which meant he had two hours and forty-five minutes before his next patient. Enough time to bring Chloe lunch.
The thought came complete with a plan—sandwiches from the deli, fresh fruit from the market, and those chocolate chip cookies she’d mentioned liking from Java Joy.
He could eat with her in the archives. Talk to her face-to-face instead of through a phone screen.
Kiss her. Hyde rumbled in approval, pushing against his careful control like a hand testing a door.
No, he thought firmly. Lunch. Conversation. Nothing more. Hyde’s skepticism was palpable.
He cleaned up the spilled coffee and grabbed his jacket. The November air was sharp when he stepped outside, carrying the bite of approaching winter. Snow would come again soon. Chloe’s cabin had adequate heating—he’d checked with Houston personally—but the road could be treacherous in bad weather.
She should move closer to town, Hyde whispered.
She’s fine where she is.
Alone. Pregnant. Miles from help.
His jaw clenched. This was the problem. Hyde’s protective instincts had attached to Chloe with disturbing intensity. Every conversation, every text, every moment spent in her presence only strengthened the bond, and the bond made control exponentially harder.
The deli smelled like fresh bread and roasted turkey. He ordered two sandwiches—turkey and avocado for Chloe, roast beef for himself—and added a container of fruit salad and the cookies on impulse.
“Date?” The selkie behind the counter grinned, her silver-streaked hair catching the overhead lights.
“Lunch.”
“Uh-huh.” She rang up the order with unnecessary enthusiasm. “With the pretty archivist?”
Somehow he managed to keep his expression neutral. “With a patient who’s working through her lunch break.”
“Right. Professional lunch delivery. Very doctorly.” The selkie’s grin widened. “You want me to throw in some of those fancy napkins? The cloth ones?”
“The paper ones are fine.”
“Boring.” But she bagged the food with a wink that suggested she knew exactly how not-boring this lunch was going to be.
He paid and escaped before she could offer more commentary on his love life.
The archives occupied the basement of the town hall—a sprawling space that had once been storage for the original settlement’s records. Chloe had spent the past month transforming it from chaos into organized history, and Victor had watched her passion for the work bloom with every visit.
He found her exactly where he expected: cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by file boxes and ledgers, her brown hair twisted into a messy knot that made his fingers itch to pull it loose.
She didn’t notice him at first, too absorbed in whatever document she was reading, one hand resting absently on the curve of her belly.
Ours, Hyde whispered. Protect. Keep safe.
Not ours, he corrected silently. Hers.
Hyde ignored him. In his worldview, what was Chloe’s was theirs. End of discussion.
“You’re staring.”
He blinked. She’d looked up, her eyes bright with amusement.
“I brought lunch.” He held up the bag like evidence, and her whole face lit up.
“You did?”
“You mentioned you were working through your break.” He moved closer, navigating around the boxes. “Thought you might appreciate food that wasn’t from a vending machine.”
“Victor Jackson, are you trying to take care of me?”
“I’m trying to ensure my patient maintains proper nutrition.” He did his best to keep his voice professional, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
She laughed and patted the floor beside her. “Well, Dr. Jackson, your patient accepts your professional concern. Sit.”
He sat, hyper-aware of how close they were.
Close enough to smell the vanilla scent of her shampoo.
Close enough to see the faint freckles across her nose.
Close enough to touch. Hyde pressed forward, and Victor felt his hands begin to enlarge.
He curled them into fists, breathing deeply until the transformation receded.
“You okay?” she asked softly.
“Fine. Just—” He pulled the food from the bag, needing something to do with his hands. “It’s been a long morning.”
She accepted the sandwich he handed her, but her eyes stayed on his face. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pull away emotionally, even though you’re sitting right next to me.”
He went still. “I’m not—”
“You are.” She carefully unwrapped the sandwich. “Your shoulders go up, your jaw gets tight, and you stop looking at me directly.” A pause. “It usually happens when you’re fighting Hyde.”
The observation was uncomfortably accurate.
“He’s more active lately,” he admitted.
“Because of me?”
“Because of everything.” He opened his own sandwich without seeing it. “You. The calls. The—” He stopped.
“The kissing?”
Heat crawled up his neck. “Yes.”
She took a bite of her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. When she swallowed, she said, “Is that why you’ve been keeping your distance? Physically, I mean. We talk every night, but you barely touch me when we’re together.”
“It’s safer that way.”
“For who?”
The question hung between them, and he set down his sandwich, his appetite vanishing.
“For you. For everyone.” He stared at his hands—normal human hands at the moment, but capable of so much more. “The more time I spend with you, the harder it is to maintain separation. And if I lose that separation—”
“You become your father?” Her voice was gentle but firm. “Victor, we’ve had this conversation.”
“And my position hasn’t changed.” He looked at her finally, needing her to understand. “My father spent years proving he was safe. He had protocols. Suppressants. Contingency plans. And it still wasn’t enough.”
“What happened? After that incident at the town gathering?”
His chest tightened. “He withdrew. Stopped attending public events. Stopped touching my mother in public. Eventually stopped touching her at all, except when he was absolutely certain he had control.” The memories rose, bitter and sharp.
“I remember watching them. The careful distance. The way she’d reach for him sometimes and he’d step away.
She never said anything. Never complained. But I could see it hurt her.”
She set down her sandwich and shifted closer. “That must have been hard to watch.”
“It taught me what love looked like in our family. Careful. Controlled. Distant.” He met her eyes. “I don’t want that for you.”
“So instead you’re choosing to keep me at a distance preemptively?” Her hand found his, her fingers threading through his. “Victor, that’s not protection. That’s just fear.”
Her touch sent electricity up his arm. Hyde surged forward, and he felt his hand grow in hers—fingers lengthening, palm widening.
He tried to pull away. “Chloe—”
“Don’t.” She held on, her smaller hand wrapped around his transforming one. “I’m not afraid.”
“You should be.” But he couldn’t make himself break the contact, not when her skin was warm against his and she was looking at him like he was something worth keeping instead of something to fear.
“I read the journal too,” she said softly.
“Your great-grandfather talked about how suppression created pressure. How the more he tried to control his Hyde, the more dangerous it became. But when he learned to integrate—when he stopped fighting and started listening—the guardian became protective instead of destructive.”
“Thaddeus didn’t have my father’s history.”
“No. He had his own history. His own fears.” She squeezed his hand—still enlarged, still half-Hyde. “But he chose trust over control. And according to the journal, it worked.”
He wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that the warmth in her eyes wasn’t naive hope but legitimate possibility, but the fear was too deeply rooted.
“I can’t risk it,” he said quietly. “I can’t risk hurting you.”
“Then don’t.” She lifted his hand to her cheek, pressing his palm against her skin. “Stop fighting Hyde. Stop treating him like a threat. And start trusting that maybe he knows what he’s doing.”
His hand was fully Hyde now -massive and clawed, capable of terrible damage. And she was holding it against her face like it was precious.
See? Hyde’s voice was smug. She knows.
Knows what?
That we’d never hurt her. That we’d die before letting anything happen to her or the baby.
The baby. Who wasn’t his. Who he had no claim to.
But Hyde didn’t care about biology. In his black-and-white worldview, Chloe was theirs, which made the baby theirs, and which made protecting them both non-negotiable.
“Victor.” Her voice pulled him back. “Are you listening to Hyde right now?”
“How did you—”
“Your eyes are glowing. And you get this look. Like you’re having an argument with yourself.” She smiled. “What’s he saying?”
He hesitated, then said carefully, “That you’re ours. That the baby’s ours. That protecting you is more important than anything else.”
“Sounds reasonable to me.”
“Chloe—”
“I know the baby isn’t yours biologically. I know this whole situation is complicated. But if Hyde wants to protect us?” She shrugged. “I’m not going to complain.”