Chapter Three #2
I pressed my cheek to the baby’s head, breathed in the impossible mix of new skin and old alley, and said, “Guess she just has bad taste in security blankets.”
His smile was quick and nothing like polite. “Or the opposite.”
I should have put the baby down, handed her to the medical team, and walked out. Instead, I held her close and waited for the question I knew was coming.
Braham moved down the table, his steps almost soundless on the carpet, and leaned against the far end. “You know what this means.”
“Enlighten me,” I said, because I wanted to hear him say it out loud.
He folded his arms, body angled to block the window as if he could singlehandedly keep the city from seeing in. “She has imprinted. On you.”
I snorted. “I’m not her kind, if you missed that part.”
His eyes flicked to the baby, then to me, then to the space between us that seemed to have collapsed since I walked in. “Doesn’t matter. The instinct is older than the pack. She’s decided, and it cannot be undone.” His voice was flat, almost tired. “You are her safe place.”
I held up a hand, palm out. “I’m not a babysitter. I’m not even…” The words died before I could form them. I wanted to say “pack” but the word stuck in my throat.
He stepped closer, careful, as if approaching something that might bolt or bite. “You’re not expected to raise her. Only to stay alive.”
“You make that sound like a challenge,” I said, and my voice was sharp enough to cut glass.
He closed the distance, standing so near I could count the lines on his knuckles, the way his watch dug into the skin of his wrist. His scent was stronger than before, a chemical cocktail of dominance, want, and something else—something that made my knees want to lock.
“Everything is a challenge, Jai.”
The baby made a contented gurgle, completely oblivious to the tension ricocheting around her tiny body.
I should have pushed back. I should have laughed in his face and left him standing there with his grand biological pronouncements. But all I could do was stand still and feel the heat off his body, and the way my own pulse synced up to his, like an echo.
He looked down at the baby, then back at me. “If anything happens to you, she will not survive.”
The words landed with an ugly weight. “So now I’m—what? A walking security detail?”
He let the silence answer for him. In another world, it would have been infuriating. Here, it just felt inevitable.
“I need to know,” I said, voice low. “Why me? Why any of this?”
He was close enough now that I could see the dark flecks in his eyes, like old honey that had been burned at the edge. “I don’t know,” he said, and the admission was so raw it made my hands tighten around the baby. “It just is.”
I set the baby down on the table, careful, and turned to face him. “You keep saying that. Like you can’t do anything about it.”
He stepped in, crowding my space, but not touching. His body was a warning, a promise, a threat. All at once. “I can’t.”
For a heartbeat, we just stood there, the baby dozing, the world outside the window pretending to be normal.
He reached up, slow, and brushed a thumb across my cheekbone. The touch was feather-light, but it sent an electric shudder through me, one that I immediately resented for its honesty. I jerked away, not because I was scared, but because I hated how much I wanted him to do it again.
He watched me, unblinking. “You want out, you can go. No one will stop you.”
I shook my head. “You’ll just come find me.”
He gave the barest nod. “Yes.”
I sucked on the lollipop, let the sugar numb my tongue, and said, “You ever going to explain what happens now, or is this all just improv?”
He leaned in, close enough to steal my breath, and said, “I’ll show you, if you let me.”
It was the worst line I’d ever heard.
It worked.
I stepped back, but my heel caught the base of the table and I had to grab the edge to keep from going down. He didn’t smile, didn’t mock, just waited while I reassembled my dignity.
The baby, now snoring, shifted and curled her fingers around my little finger, locking me in place. I looked down at her, then up at him.
“Fine,” I said. “But if you ever pull this alpha shit on me again, I’m going to introduce you to my knife. Up close.”
He smiled, wide and wolfish, and for the first time I felt something like safety in the room.
“Deal,” he said.
The tension snapped, and I laughed—a real, ugly, undignified bark.
Braham Wolfe, Prime Alpha of the Pacific Northwest, reached past me, lifted the baby as if she weighed nothing, and tucked her into the crook of his arm. She slept on, perfectly content.
He looked at me, waiting for the next move.
I didn’t have one.
So I just stood there, breathing, letting the silence fill in the spaces where words used to go.
Eventually, he said, “You should go home and rest. The sun will be up soon. The pup should sleep until morning.”
I nodded, too tired to argue. I walked to the door, let my hand linger on the frame for a second, and said, “You’re a bastard.”
He didn’t deny it. “You’ll come back.”
I wanted to tell him he was wrong. I wanted to slam the door, or throw something, or just run until the world shrank down to a size I could handle.
But all I could do was walk away, knowing I would come back, and that it wasn’t weakness.
It was just what happened.
I hit the elevator, stabbed the button, and waited. The last thing I saw was Braham, holding the baby, watching me with a look that said everything was still possible, and maybe even allowed.
The elevator doors closed, and the city took me back.