3. Anya
ANYA
I walk into the Ashford wing an hour before anyone else should arrive, and my legs still tingle from last night. Every step sends a low hum through muscles I didn't know I had, a pleasant ache that reminds me exactly what happened on Jones's desk after Eric and Vincent left for their formal dinner.
The memory should embarrass me. Should make me want to hide under my covers and never show my face in this office again. Instead, it settles into my bones like something I've been waiting my whole life to discover.
I can't believe it. Me—Anya Cole, who had never been attracted to a single person—stripped naked in front of a man and dared him to take me. And he did. And it was nothing like I expected and everything I didn't know I wanted.
The wing is empty, quiet except for the hum of computers and the distant sound of cleaning crews finishing up on the lower floors.
My desk sits exactly where I left it yesterday—organized, efficient, proof that I belong here even if the reason I stayed late had nothing to do with filing systems or appointment schedules.
Setting my bag down, I turn on my computer and settle into the chair. The leather is cool against the back of my thighs, and I shift slightly, feeling that familiar soreness that makes heat pool low in my belly.
My body remembers every second of last night. Jones's hands on my skin. His mouth against my throat. The way he looked at me when I challenged him—like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.
Something changed when I stripped in front of him.
Not just between us, but in me. The boldness that possessed me—the defiance, the challenge, the complete lack of shame when I stood naked and demanded he take me—didn't disappear when the sun came up.
It followed me home and walked back into this office with me this morning.
These men, my stepbrothers, successful doctors who built the biggest fertility clinic in the state, want me. Jones made that very clear. And knowing that doesn't make me smaller. It makes me taller.
The power dynamic crystallizes as I look around the wing.
In this office, they are my bosses. They grill me, challenge me, make me prove myself with every task and every question.
But last night, Jones was at my mercy. I told him to take me, and he did. I set the terms. I started the dare.
The contrast is something I'm only beginning to understand, and I like what I'm finding.
Footsteps echo in the hallway, and I glance at the clock. Still forty minutes before anyone should be here. The elevator dings, and Eric's voice carries down the corridor—something about grabbing files before the staff meeting.
He rounds the corner into the wing and stops short when he sees me.
Six foot five of blonde hair and green eyes and that easy smile that's become dangerously familiar.
His man bun is perfectly messy, his crisp, white shirt fitted across broad shoulders, and those full sleeve tattoos peek out from rolled-up sleeves.
"Well, well. Look who's early."
I don't look up from my computer screen. "I could say the same thing about you."
"Couldn't sleep." He sets a coffee carrier on the edge of my desk and leans against it, close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne. "You?"
"I sleep fine." The lie comes out smooth as silk. I actually lay awake for hours, replaying every moment of Jones's hands on my body, every word he whispered in my ear about making me pregnant.
Eric's laugh is warm and genuine. "Sure you do, sweetheart. That's why you're here at seven in the morning looking like you've been thinking very hard about something."
"Maybe I just like getting work done without distractions."
"Distractions?" He slides one of the coffees toward me, fingers brushing mine when I reach for it. "I'm wounded."
The contact sends familiar heat up my arm, but instead of jerking my hand away like I might have yesterday, I let it linger. Let my fingertips trace across his knuckles before I pull back with the cup. His eyebrows lift slightly, and that easy smile shifts into something more focused.
"You seem different today." He tilts his head, studying my face with those sharp green eyes. "Can't quite put my finger on it."
"Different how?"
"Bolder, maybe. Like you know something you didn't know yesterday."
The observation is too close to the truth, and instead of deflecting or blushing or looking away, I meet his gaze directly. "Maybe I do."
His smile widens. "Now that's interesting. Care to elaborate?"
"Not particularly."
"Playing coy doesn't suit you, gorgeous. You're more of a straight-shooter type."
I lean back in my chair and take a slow sip of coffee. "And you're more of a charming-your-way-out-of-everything type. Doesn't mean it always works."
Eric laughs again, this one louder and more surprised. The sound fills the quiet wing and bounces off the glass walls of the conference room. He looks at me differently after that—less autopilot charm, more genuine interest.
"Damn. Where has this attitude been hiding?"
"Who says it was hiding?"
"Yesterday you blushed every time I looked at you."
"Yesterday I was getting used to the idea of working for three men who think they know what's best for me."
"And today?"
Today I know what it feels like to have one of those men inside me. Today I know what it sounds like when Jones tells me he's going to make me pregnant and means every word. Today I know I'm not the shy literature graduate they think they're dealing with.
"Today I'm not so easily impressed."
Eric pushes off from the desk and moves around to my side, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
The playfulness is still there in his expression, but there's something sharper underneath now. Something that makes my pulse jump.
"Not easily impressed, huh? That sounds like a challenge."
"Everything sounds like a challenge to men like you."
"Men like me?"
"Men who think charm is the answer to everything."
"And what's the answer to you, Anya?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm not sure I'm ready to name. But the boldness from last night is still humming in my veins, still making me sit taller in my chair and hold his gaze instead of looking away.
"Honesty."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or approval. "Honesty. I can work with that."
He leans down, bracing one hand on the arm of my chair, the other flat on my desk. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.
"Honestly? I've been thinking about you since the moment you walked into that conference room and told us we were wrong about your business plan."
"You thought my business plan was terrible."
"It was terrible. But the way you lifted your chin and dared us to prove it? That was something else entirely."
Heat spreads across my cheeks, but I don't look away. "I don't like being underestimated."
"And I don't like women who fold the first time someone pushes back. Lucky for me, you don't seem to be the folding type."
"Lucky for you?"
His smile turns predatory. "Very lucky."
The air between us feels charged, electric with possibility and want. This is different from my dynamic with Jones—where he and I are all confrontation and control and intensity, Eric and I are banter and wit and playful escalation.
He teases me, and instead of folding, instead of blushing and looking away, I fire right back. It surprises both of us.
"You know," I say, setting my coffee down with deliberate slowness, "for someone who claims to want honesty, you're being pretty evasive about why you're really here so early."
"Maybe I was hoping to catch you alone."
"And why would you want to do that?"
Eric's hand moves from the chair arm to brush a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering against my skin. "Because yesterday you looked at me like you wanted to find out what I taste like, and today you're looking at me like you might actually do something about it."
The observation steals my breath. Not because it's wrong, but because it's exactly right. Yesterday I was all attraction and uncertainty, stealing glances when I thought none of them were looking. Today I'm not stealing anything. I'm taking.
"You have quite an ego."
"It's not ego if it's true, sweetheart."
I shift in my chair, and the movement sends a sharp reminder through my body—the pleasant soreness from last night, the tenderness that comes with a first time. Eric notices the wince immediately, and his playful expression shifts into something more focused.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
But the denial comes too quick, too defensive, and his eyes narrow slightly. He's reading my face, my body language, putting together pieces I didn't mean to give him.
"Did something happen last night after we left?"
The question is casual, but there's an edge underneath that makes my stomach flip. Not jealousy—something else. Something that feels like concern mixed with possibility.
"Why would you ask that?"
"Because you're sitting like you're sore, and you've got this satisfied look that wasn't there yesterday, and my brother Jones drove you home."
The pieces click together in his head, and I watch his expression change. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something that looks almost like approval mixed with heat.
"Was he gentle with you?"
The question catches me completely off guard. I expected possessiveness, rivalry, anger about Jones "getting there first." Instead I get tenderness. I get a man who genuinely wants to know if I was hurt.
"He was." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "I did hurt a little."
Eric's thumb brushes across my cheek, and his touch is so careful it makes my chest tight. "Your first time?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"And you're okay?"
"Yes."
He studies my face for a long moment, and whatever he sees there makes him smile. Not the charming grin he wears like armor, but something softer and more real.
"So you like my brother, huh?"
The question is teasing, easy, but his eyes are focused on my face. Not hurt. Not wounded. Curious. Warm. Like he's genuinely pleased for both Jones and me, which doesn't fit any model I have for how men are supposed to react to this kind of situation.
The words spill out before I can stop them. "I like you too."
Eric's eyes widen. His smile changes—slower, sharper, the warmth still there but with an edge underneath that makes my pulse jump. The charmer peels back and something more focused steps forward.
"Well, look at you. And here I thought you were the goody two shoes kind."
The comment should sting, should make me defensive. Instead it makes me laugh. "Goody two shoes don't strip naked in their boss's office and demand to be fucked."
Eric's sharp intake of breath is audible. His hand tightens on my cheek, and the playfulness in his expression shifts entirely into something possessive and hungry.
"Christ, Anya. You can't just say things like that."
"Why not? You wanted honesty."
"You're going to be the death of me."
"I certainly hope not. That would make the next three months very awkward."
He laughs, but it's breathier now, rougher around the edges. The hand on my cheek slides down to curve around the back of my neck, thumb stroking against my pulse point.
"The thing my brother must not have told you is that we've always been good at sharing."
The word hits me like a physical blow. Sharing. Three men. All three. Not one or the other—all of them. The thought should be insane, and it is insane, and my body's response to it is immediate and undeniable.
"What do you mean?"
Eric crowds closer, his other hand coming to rest on the arm of my chair so he's caging me in. Not threatening—possessive. His voice drops to a whisper that sends shivers down my spine.
"We'll keep you. You won't get away from us, because we're putting a baby in you."
The words rearrange something in my head. Last night, when Jones was inside me, he talked about making me pregnant. I thought it was dirty talk. Heat of the moment. Something men say when they're lost in sensation and not thinking clearly.
But Eric is standing in front of me in the cold light of morning, fully clothed and clear-eyed, and he's saying the same thing in different words. Confirming that it wasn't just talk.
"You're serious."
"Dead serious."
I've never thought about having a family. Never pictured myself as a mother. Never imagined kids or a house or any of the things other women my age talked about with certainty. It wasn't on my radar. It wasn't in my plans.
But Jones said it last night and the thought burrowed into me, and now Eric is confirming it wasn't just fantasy, and something in my chest opens up that I didn't know was closed. The wanting is quiet and fierce and completely unexpected. A family. With them.
It's a crazy idea—but so is wanting all three of my stepbrothers, and I've already crossed that line.
"And if I said yes?"
Eric's eyes darken. "Then we'd take very good care of you. All of us."
His hand slides from the chair arm to my thigh, fingers splaying wide across the fabric of my skirt. Not aggressive—slow, deliberate, giving me time to stop him if I want to.
"Tell me to stop."
The beat before my answer stretches between us. I don't look away. I don't pull back. I think about the power in this moment—he is asking my permission. This man, six foot five, broad and strong and used to getting what he wants, is waiting for my word.
In the office, he's my boss. Right here, right now, he is at my mercy.
"We have time before the others arrive."
He slams his mouth to mine.