Chapter 3
Chapter three
Roan
Morning light cuts through the plantation shutters in sharp bands, striping the crib in pale slats and dark.
Jas fusses, her tiny fists balled against the knitted blanket, face screwed into that pre-cry grimace that means business.
I lean over the railing, one finger tracing the curve of her ear.
She settles, hiccups, blinks up at me with Vaughn-blue eyes.
"She's still a little warm," Lila says, hovering at the bedroom door with a thermometer clutched in one hand and maternal guilt in the other. "Maybe we shouldn't—"
"She's fine." Grayson appears behind his mate, hands settling on her shoulders with the kind of ownership that would get him punched in a boardroom but here just looks like desperate relief. "Fever broke. Roan's got her. It's thirty minutes. Just the beach path and back."
I don't look up from the baby. "Go. Shoo. I think I can handle a sick infant for a hell of a lot longer than an hour."
Lila bites her lip, that dark bob swinging as she looks between me and the crib. She wrings her hands. Her face is unsmiling and dark circles painted beneath her eyes like bruises. The island heat has her lavender-and-ginger scent dialed high, anxiety threading through it like copper wire.
The screen door opens behind them.
"I came to check on Jas. No one asked me," Sharma says having obviously overheard the conversation, "but I'll stay too. Double the hands, half the work. I'll make sure Roan doesn't make things worse."
She stands in the doorway in tangerine-colored pants, a black tank top clinging to her full generous curves. Her hair is loose, tight coils drifting around her shoulders. She looks young. Soft. Nothing like the girl who stood like a block of ice while I tried to melt her defenses.
Why aren't suppressants an option for alphas? I'm trapped by her gorgeous face and answer my own question. Because no alpha would give up that euphoria of drowning in his mate's scent.
Lila's shoulders drop an inch. "Sharma. You don't have to—"
"I want to." Sharma crosses to the crib, her hip brushing mine as she leans in to inspect Jas.
The contact sears through the linen of my shirt, branding my thigh.
She smells intoxicating, honey and sunshine.
I turn my head to keep from burying my face in the curve of her shoulder.
She scolds the new parents. "Go walk. Drink something with ice. Pretend you're on vacation."
"Thanks," Grayson says as his hand slides down Lila's arm, tangling their fingers. "We'll be quick."
"Don't be," I say, lifting Jas when she starts to whimper, settling her against my shoulder.
She's so small. So fragile that feeling her lungs expand against my collarbone tugs at my heart, triggering every protective instinct I have.
"Be slow. I've got this." I risk a glance at Sharma — and hold. "We've got this."
Lila hesitates one more heartbeat, then lets Gray pull her toward the door. It clicks shut with that heavy resort-lock sound, sealing the three of us—me, Sharma, and six pounds of Vaughn fussiness—inside the salt-tinged quiet.
Jas roots against my neck, her mouth working. "She's hungry," I say.
Sharma arches a brow. "You speak her language?"
"I try." I move to the bottle warmer on the counter, settling Jas in the crook of one arm while I test the milk with my wrist. "None of us ever thought we'd have a family. So when Jas came along, we were all thrilled. She's everything we didn't know we needed."
Her arms fold under her breasts while I work. Her analytical gaze strips me layer by layer. "You hold her like you know her," Sharma says, softly.
"We learned at early ages that we were all we had.
If we needed something, we better learn how to do it.
Our mother was sick for a long time, and then she was gone.
The old man was..." I stop. The grief doesn't arrive clean — it sits in my throat like a word I've bitten back so many times the shape of it has worn smooth.
"Dad was busy mourning." Her eyes have softened.
"I was never as hard of a character as I pretended to be.
" Fever broken, diaper dry, Jas curls into my arms as I settle on the couch to feed her.
Sharma sits beside me, close enough that her knee grazes my thigh. "I never thought about how young you were. You were just a kid yourself."
"Sixteen." Jas sucks greedily, her eyelids fluttering.
The rhythm of her swallowing steadies my rioting emotions.
"Old enough to know that if I didn't step up, no one would.
Gray was drowning in the company. Hunter was in law school, barely keeping his head above water.
Liam was... Liam." The laugh that comes out tastes bitter.
"Someone had to make sure Viv ate. Someone had to tease her relentlessly so she didn't notice her parents were gone. I was mean and cruel."
The silence stretches between us, elastic and tense. "Yes, you were," Sharma says, not allowing me any excuses.
"How old were you the last time I saw you? Fifteen? Sixteen?"
"Sixteen. As soon as I presented and realized who you were, I didn't dare come around again. I didn't want a mate who constantly tore me down. Even at that young age, I knew I deserved better."
The words land with laser precision. My hand tightens on Jas' bottom, and she whimpers. I force my grip gentle.
I look at Sharma—really look at the woman beside me, not the girl I tortured, not the omega biology chose for me, but Sharma. The girl who earned an advanced degree while others were buying prom dresses. The woman who built walls so high I can't see the top.
"I know," I say.
She stares back. Her soft doe-shaped eyes round, crisp black outlining the warm brown, and her breath trips.
Her pulse hammers at her throat, a light sheen glosses her collarbone emitting more of her scent.
Calling me. Reeling me into madness. I want to toss my beloved niece in the crib like a rag doll and take my omega.
Fuck. My control tears against my restraint.
She's mine, but she's not mine, and I'm not built for that discrepancy.
She should be terrified. I should be terrified—this is exactly what the pact forbade, exactly what destroyed Dad.
Instead of fear, I want to lay her open.
Want to crawl inside her curvy thighs and live there.
Thank God, Jas finishes the bottle with a satisfied sigh. I lift her, pat her back until the burp comes, soft and milky against my shoulder. Sharma watches the process, before her gaze drops entirely, and she rebuilds her defenses.
"You're good at this," she admits.
"I'll be better with ours."
Her head snaps up. "Don't."
"Why not? You feel it." I lower Jas into the portable crib, settling her on her back, one hand on her belly until her breathing evens into sleep the way I've seen my asshole brother do a thousand times.
When I turn back, Sharma has retreated to the window, spine rigid.
"Your hands are shaking, Sharma. Your scent is filling this room like smoke. I taste it with every breath."
She whirls, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. "Just stop. You don't give your sad story and expect a clean slate, Roan. You can't waltz in here with your adoring uncle routine and expect me to surrender just because you can soothe a baby."
"I don't expect anything," I snarl, done with this bullshit delay.
I cross to her, not giving her space to run.
Her back hits the window frame, trapped by prey instinct or the fact that part of her doesn't want to run.
"I'm just stating facts. You smell like your temp is higher than Jas's was.
Do you know how much control I have to exert not to throw you down on the floor and rut you until you admit you're mine?
The bond doesn't care about your resentment. It doesn't care about my apologies."
"Then fuck the bond."
"Gladly." I crowd closer, caging her with my arms on either side of her head. "But you'd have to stop running first."
The screen door bangs open. Sharma jumps away, darting under my arm like a guilty teenager.
Her hand flies to her throat. I haven't wanted to kick my brother's ass this badly since we were teenagers.
Need to kick his ass, punch him in the gut a few times, and watch him bleed just so that I have some place to put my frustration and anger.
Grayson fills the doorway, sand on his shoes, Lila tucked under his arm, looking actually rested for the first time in days. His eyes narrow, going from me to Sharma and back.
"Everything okay?" he asks, voice low.
"Fine," Sharma says, too fast. She pushes past me, gathering her bag from the chair with trembling hands. "Jas is asleep. She ate three ounces. Temperature's normal."
Lila moves to the crib, checking for herself, but Gray keeps staring at me. The unspoken question hangs there. Are you breaking? Like Dad? I lift my chin. "I was just offering to walk Sharma back to her bungalow."
"I don't need—" Sharma starts.
"I insist." I grab my sunglasses from the counter, sliding them on to hide whatever's showing in my eyes. "Consider it professional courtesy. Wouldn't want our top consultant getting lost."
She glares, but she's breathing hard, and the heat in her breath isn't from anger. The slick is readying her — I smell it now, sharp and sweet beneath the mask of her perfume. The walk is going to kill me.