Chapter 17
Victor woke with Chloe’s heartbeat steady against his side.
He was still on her couch, sprawled across the cushions with her tucked against his side.
Dawn light filtered through the curtains, painting everything gold and soft and deceptively peaceful.
His hand, still slightly enlarged, rested on her belly, his palm spread wide.
Fuck.
He carefully extracted himself from her warmth, moving as deliberately as if he were defusing a bomb.
She shifted but didn’t wake, turning into the space he’d vacated with a small contented sound.
He stood looking down at her—hair mussed, lips slightly parted, one hand cradling her bump even in sleep.
Beautiful. Perfect. Vulnerable.
And he’d lost control with her last night. His stomach turned as the memories crashed back. Hyde emerging not in violence but in desire. Those enormous hands touching her, holding her. Long clawed fingers spanning the curve where their—where her—baby grew.
He’d been on the verge of taking her and what if that had caused Hyde to take full control? What if he’d shifted completely? The vision of her delicate frame crushed beneath Hyde’s mass suddenly filled his mind, her small bones breaking like kindling. And the baby—
He barely made it to her bathroom before he was sick. He knelt on the cold tile, forehead pressed against the porcelain, and tried to breathe through the panic clawing up his throat.
Monster. I’m a monster. Just like my father.
But his father had never felt this. He’d never experienced Hyde’s presence as anything but rage and destruction.
But Victor had felt contentment last night, Hyde settling into something that felt almost like peace, and somehow that was worse because it meant Hyde wanted this.
He wanted to be close and involved and part of their lives.
And Victor knew with bone-deep certainty that want would be their destruction.
He cleaned himself up mechanically and splashed cold water on his face. His reflection stared back from the mirror—his eyes bloodshot and his jaw tight, the faint green tinge that meant Hyde was still too close to the surface. Hyde was always too close now, and he had been since Chloe arrived.
He dried his face and returned to the living room. She was still sleeping, curled on her side with both hands protecting her belly now as if she were shielding the baby—shielding the baby from threats like him. He needed to leave. He should have left hours ago, before dawn made everything harder.
But he found himself moving to the couch instead, crouching beside where she slept. Just one more moment. One last time letting himself imagine this was his—that she was his—before he destroyed it.
Her eyes fluttered open. She smiled before she was fully awake, that soft unguarded expression that made his chest ache.
“Morning.” Her voice was sleep-rough. “You stayed.”
“I shouldn’t have.” He managed to keep his tone neutral, clinical. “You needed a proper rest. A couch isn’t appropriate for someone in your condition.”
She blinked, coming more awake, and her smile faded as she registered his carefully blank expression. “Victor? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m simply clarifying the situation.”
“The situation.” She pushed herself upright, her movements awkward with her belly in the way. “What situation?”
“Last night was a mistake.” Each word felt like swallowing glass. “I lost control and put you at risk. It can’t happen again.”
She stared at him. “You didn’t lose control. You were right there. Present and gentle and—”
“I was transforming.” He stood, needing distance. “At least half of me was Hyde, and if I’d shifted completely—”
“You wouldn’t have hurt me.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I know you.” She swung her legs off the couch. “And I know Hyde. He was content last night. Happy, not violent.”
“For now.” He moved to the window, looking out at the quiet woods rather than her face. “But that can change. My father—”
“Is not you. We’ve been through this.”
“We clearly haven’t, since you still seem to think I’m safe.
” He turned back to her, letting her see the green glow he could feel building behind his eyes.
“Look at me, Chloe. Really look. This is what I am. A man who can barely maintain human form around you. Who transforms from desire rather than anger, which is somehow worse because it means I can’t even trust myself in intimate moments. ”
She climbed to her feet, one hand braced on her lower back. “You’re afraid.”
“I’m realistic.”
“You’re running.” She crossed the room towards him. “Because last night was real and intense and you actually let yourself feel something. So now you’re panicking and pushing me away before—”
“Before I hurt you.” He held up his hand, palm out. “Look.”
His fingers were lengthening as they watched. His nails darkening into claws. His skin taking on the familiar faint greenish tint.
“You see?” he asked harshly. “I can’t even have this conversation without losing control. What happens when we argue about something serious? When the baby is crying and you’re exhausted and I’m stressed? What happens when—”
“When we face life together like actual partners instead of you catastrophizing everything?” She reached for his transforming hand, and he jerked back.
“Don’t.”
“Why not? You touched me plenty last night with hands bigger than this.”
“Last night was—” He searched for words. “An aberration. A moment of weakness. It can’t happen again.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
The word fell between them like an executioner’s axe.
Her expression crumpled for just a moment before she forced it smooth, but he’d seen her hope shatter and reform into something harder.
“I see.” Her voice was steady despite the wet shine in her eyes. “So that’s it? One night of actual honesty and connection and you’re done?”
“I’m protecting you.”
“Bullshit.” The curse sounded wrong in her soft voice. “You’re protecting yourself. From feeling. From risking. From being happy.”
“Chloe—”
“No.” She held up a hand. “You don’t get to ‘Chloe’ me right now. You don’t get to use my name like it means something when you’re actively throwing away what we have.”
Hyde roared inside his chest—rage and denial and anguish all tangled together. His hands clenched, fighting the transformation crawling up his arms.
“This is exactly what I mean.” He gestured at himself, at the changes rippling through his body. “I can’t even discuss ending this without Hyde fighting me. What happens when real problems arise? When he decides you or the baby are threatened by something trivial?”
“Then we handle it.” Her hands settled on her belly, protective and fierce. “Together. Like people who care about each other do.”
“I can’t—”
“You won’t.” Her voice cracked. “There’s a difference, Victor. Can’t means impossible. Won’t means you’re choosing not to try.”
He forced his hands behind his back, hiding the transformation.
“I’ve seen what happens when a Hyde loses control around people he loves.
My father nearly killed my mother during an argument about dinner.
Dinner, Chloe. Something that mundane, that ordinary, and he shifted and put her through a wall. ”
“On purpose?”
“The intent doesn’t matter. The capability does.”
“So you’re going to what? Spend your whole life alone? Never risk caring about anyone because you might hurt them?” She took a shaky breath. “That’s not living. I’m not even sure that’s existing.”
“It’s safe.”
“For who? Not for me. Not for this baby who already knows your touch and trusts you. Not even for you, spending your whole life afraid of yourself.”
His control was slipping. He could feel Hyde pushing harder now, drawn by Chloe’s distress. Fighting his decision to end this.
“I should go.” He moved toward the door. “I’ll arrange for Dr. Carlisle from Pinehaven to take over your prenatal care. She’s excellent. Very experienced with high-risk pregnancies.”
“I’m not high-risk.”
“You are if I’m involved.”
She flinched like he’d struck her. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it’s true.”
He reached the door. His hand on the knob was fully transformed now—massive and green-tinged and inhuman.
“Victor.” Her voice stopped him. “Look at me.”
He couldn’t. If he looked at her now—if he saw her crying because of him—he’d break. Hyde would win and he would stay and eventually he’d hurt her. Or the baby.
Or worse—he’d make them love him first.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the door. “I can’t be what you need.”
“You already are.”
The words stabbed sent a knife through his gut as he opened the door and stepped out into the November cold.
“Goodbye, Chloe.”
He closed the door on her response, and walked down the porch steps with Hyde fighting him the entire way. He made it to his car before his hands slammed against the steering wheel hard enough to bend metal.
The roar that tore from his throat was pure Hyde—anguish and rage and loss all compressed into a sound no human voice could make.
He’d done the right thing. The only thing.
So why did it feel like dying?