Alec
Rowan’s words were deliberately brutal, and they landed exactly as intended—she gasped beneath them. I nuzzled into her neck as Rowan peeled her top down, exposing her flushed nipples to the cool air. The mattress dipped when Nick joined us.
I smiled against her skin.
“Chicken,” I murmured, sliding my tongue along Ella’s earlobe until she hissed.
“My face is too pretty to be damaged.”
Ella snorted softly.
Rowan closed in on her bare breasts.
Words fell away after that. There was nothing left to say as we showed her exactly what she needed.
Us.
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?
?
Ella was struggling to adapt to the news, and part of me wondered if she might try to harm the baby. But then she’d slip into that distant, dreamy look—and I’d catch her hand resting over her stomach, protective without realising it. The doubt began to ebb.
We kept a close eye on her, even when she was sitting right beside one of us.
She was angry, but she didn’t voice it. We’d left her satiated and drifting in the bed while we cleaned up the mess and the shattered glass. Still, I noticed the flare of her nostrils, the way she’d push a hand away, the lethal glare she thought we were blind to. Nick ignored it. Rowan read it.
I enjoyed every bit of the resistance.
It would be the icing on the cake if it was my baby claiming her space right now.
Genetic mutation, my arse.
She should consider my gene pool a blessing.
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?
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I lay back on the bed fully clothed, deliberately leaving my feet crossed and hanging off the edge of the mattress, watching as Ella put the finishing touches on her hair.
She curled the loose strands that framed her face with slow concentration, tongue caught briefly between her teeth as she checked the mirror from every angle.
The dress was simple—deceptively so—but devastating on her.
The top was black, long-sleeved and fitted, clinging neatly to her shoulders and arms, while the fabric that cinched her waist bloomed into a peach-and-pink floral print.
It drew the eye straight to the narrow line of her middle.
A small V-shaped panel at her belly was edged with tiny white pearls, subtle but impossible to ignore.
My gaze kept drifting back there, again and again, like it had its own gravity.
She slipped into a pair of black peep-toe heels, the oversized brooches on the front catching the bedroom spotlights and scattering light across the walls.
Sparkling. Deliberate. The whole look gave me a distinct fifties—or maybe early sixties—feel.
All it needed was a little more flare in the skirt and she’d look like she’d stepped out of a vintage photograph.
“You look beautiful,” I said, unable to stop myself. Then, grinning, I added, “Just think how pretty our babies will be.”
I snickered, but my attention sharpened when she reached for the perfume bottle.
Givenchy.
She weighed it in her hand, turning slowly toward me with a look that was far too considered. Far too calm. There was something decisively wicked in the way her eyes flicked up to meet mine.
I froze.
Already calculating the distance to the nearest pillow.
For a split second, I was convinced she was about to lob the bottle straight at my head—but instead she popped the lid, spritzed the air, and dabbed it neatly along her wrists and neck. Casual. Innocent. As if she hadn’t just contemplated violence.
I narrowed my eyes at her, unimpressed, then reached for my phone.
Me: Keep her off the true crime programmes on Netflix.
Nick: Do you want us to set parental controls for her profile?
Rowan: Are you feeling nervous?
I smirked, watching her in the mirror as the scent settled—floral, expensive, unmistakably hers.
Maybe I was a little nervous.
But mostly?
I was entertained.
When she lifted her tiny beaded purse from the bed and tapped my feet with it, I stood and straightened my jacket without thinking.
It felt like a night meant for celebration—whether she understood that yet or not.
I offered her my hand. She didn’t hesitate before threading her fingers through mine.
Satisfaction spread through my chest, followed by something warmer. Heavier. Pride, maybe. Possession. Something close to relief. I couldn’t quite name it—but the ease of her acceptance softened a part of me I didn’t often acknowledge.
I lifted her hand and pressed a brief, deliberate kiss to her knuckles.
“Let’s get you two fed,” I murmured.
Her faint smile disappeared instantly, replaced by a sharp shake of her head.
Whatever she was calling me in her head, I probably deserved it.
But I’d never been particularly good at pretending to be anything other than exactly what I was.
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Slivers of red chilli rested on top of her curry, the greenery unmistakably coriander. Beneath it sat rice and peas, with a few slices of plantain tucked neatly to the side.
“Are you sure you can eat that?” I asked as the waiter set two more plates on the table.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she replied, unfolding her napkin.
“There wasn’t anything about spice in the book,” Rowan said, nudging his plate closer.
“He can’t handle hot,” Nick chortled. “Pussy.”
I shot him a glare—just as Ella burst out laughing.
I resisted the urge to Google it—just in case she was trying to burn my kid out of her.
Our kid.
She lifted her cutlery and dug in without hesitation. I watched her closely as she took a few measured bites. No flinch. No watering eyes. Just quiet enjoyment.
She could handle the heat.
I shouldn’t have been surprised.
With a faint smile, I turned my attention to the meat platter in front of me. Charred edges. Rich glaze. The scent of smoke and spice hung thick in the air. I was glad she’d chosen the restaurant. It forced me out of my usual routine—something predictable and safe.
Conversation began to flow around the table—Nick’s dry remarks, Rowan’s steady observations—but I found myself only half listening.
My focus stayed on Ella.
The way she chewed.
The way she dabbed delicately at the corner of her mouth.
The way she’d occasionally smile or answer one of our comments without hesitation.
Nothing forced. Nothing rehearsed.
Just natural.
Unaware of how closely she was being watched.
We needed to take her out more often.
Not just for appearances.
For this.
For the illusion of normal.