Chapter 35
The flannel shirt smells like him, woodsmoke and cedar and something darker underneath that I can’t name but would know blindfolded. I pull the collar up over my nose and breathe deep, the pregnancy book on my lap forgotten, pages unturned for twenty minutes.
Beckett’s fingers move over the piano keys in nothing but his underwear, his notebook—the pages crowded with scribbles and crossed-out lines—propped against the music rack.
He’s been stuck on the same verse for an hour, playing four notes, stopping, playing them again with a slight variation—humming under his breath, staring over.
The melody hooks in my chest. It’s the one from the first night I heard him sing. The night he picked me up for Jackson’s birthday dinner and I stood in the hallway like an idiot, somehow dumbfounded by just how good he was.
He sings to himself, the words barely reaching me on the couch.
Rain’s falling, tin roof says
Fire’s warm, it will last
Rain’s falling, that I’m sure
Together we notice, not afraid of more
Snow drifts past the window behind him. He doesn’t seem to notice, his focus on the keys, on the problem he hasn’t solved yet.
His body sways slightly with the rhythm he’s building, and I watch the firelight move across his bare shoulders.
I look at the scar on his left shoulder blade that he got falling out of a tree at eleven, at the way his spine curves when he leans into a chord, then straightens when he pulls back, dissatisfied.
His voice is rough, unpolished, and it does something to my chest.
This. Right here. Snow falling outside, a fire warming the room, Beckett at the piano.
I wouldn’t trade any of it. Not even the hard moments.
The horseback riding accident that could have been so much worse. The stalker who’s been terrorizing Beckett. The fear over this pregnancy.
Not a single piece. Because every moment, the good and the bad, led us here. To this couch, this fire, this man.
I shift, the sound catching Beckett’s attention. He catches me watching him and his hand still on the keys.
“Sorry,” he says, turning on the bench to face me. “I didn’t mean to ignore you. I lost track of—”
“I love this,” I interrupt, closing the book and setting it on the coffee table. The movement gives me an excuse to look at him again, at the defined lines of his stomach, the way his underwear sits low on his hips. “Watching you work…hearing you play.” I meet his eyes. “It’s sexy as hell.”
Something in his being shifts, becomes predatory and pleased. He closes the notebook and stands, moving toward me with the grace of a man who knows exactly what he wants and has every intention of taking it.
My pulse kicks up, heat pooling low in my belly before he’s even touched me.
He sinks to his knees at my feet, his hands sliding up my calves, my thighs, stopping to toy with the edge of my panties beneath his shirt. His thumbs trace lazy circles on my skin, inching higher.
“You’re the sexy one,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to that register that does dangerous things to me. “Lounging on your couch in my shirt like you own me.”
“Maybe I do.” I smirk, swallowing hard.
His smile is slow—wicked. “Maybe you do.”
He leans in, pressing a kiss to the inside of my knee. To the inside of my thigh. His fingers slip under the edge of my underwear, sliding down to find me already wet and ready. I hiss at the contact, my hips bucking involuntarily toward his hand.
“Movie day?” he asks, his breath hot against my thigh, though his fingers are already working me in slow teasing circles.
I shake my head, my voice barely a whisper. “Not yet.”
He doesn’t need more encouragement. He hooks his fingers in my panties and pulls them down, tossing them aside. His fingers work the buttons of his flannel, pushing it open and exposing me to him. I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.
“Beautiful,” he breathes, and then his mouth is on me.
I cry out, my head falling back against the cushions as his tongue finds me.
He knows exactly how to touch me, exactly what makes me gasp and squirm and beg.
He works me with his lips and tongue and the occasional scrape of teeth, his hand gripping my hips to hold me in place when I try to writhe away from the intensity.
“Beckett,” I pant, my fingers tangling in his hair, tugging slightly. “Please.”
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he doubles his efforts, his tongue flicking faster, his hand sliding under my thighs to lift me closer to his mouth. The pressure builds, coiling tight and hot in my center, and I’m right there, teetering on the edge when he pulls back.
I make a sound of protest, my eyes flying open to find him watching me, his lips wet, his pupils blown wide with desire.
“Not yet,” he says, echoing my earlier words. “I want to feel you come apart.”
He stands, shoving his boxers down and kicking them aside. His erection springs free, thick and hard, and my mouth waters at the sight of him. He reaches for me, pulling me up from the couch and turning me so I’m facing away from him, my hands braced on the armrest.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs against my ear, his chest pressed to my back, his heat surrounding me.
“I’m fine,” I breathe, pushing back against him. “Please, Beckett. I need you.”
He groans, the sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest, and then he’s guiding himself into me, slow and steady, filling me inch by inch until I’m stretched around him—the feeling absolutely perfect.
We freeze for a moment, savoring the connection, the rightness of it.
Then he starts to move.
His thrusts are deep—deliberate—each one hitting exactly where I need. One hand grips my hip, holding me steady, while the other slides around to find my clit, his fingers working me in time with his movement.
“Madison,” he grits out, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. “You feel—fuck—you feel incredible.”
I can’t speak, can only feel. The slide of him inside me, the pressure of his fingers, the heat building and building until I’m panting, desperate, my knuckles white where I grip the couch.
“Let go,” he commands, his voice rough. “I’ve got you. Let go.”
As if my body has no choice but to listen, I do.
The orgasm crashes over me like a wave, my body tightening around him as I cry out his name. He follows seconds later, his thrusts becoming erratic, his grip on my hip bruising as he spills inside me with a groan that sounds like my name.
We collapse onto the couch in a tangle of limbs, both of us breathing hard, sweat cooling our skin. Beckett reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulls it over us, tucking it around me before drawing me close.
His hand moves on my back in a pattern I can’t predict. Shoulder blade, the tender spot at the base of my spine, and up again. His thumb drags slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. Each pass of his hand pulls me further under, the fire’s crackle fading to a distant hum.
My fingertip finds the ridge of his collarbone, traces it to the hollow of his throat, circles back.
The hair on his chest is soft, springy against my palm.
I follow the center line down, over the swell of muscle, the dip of his stomach, until the blanket stops me and I trace the same path up, starting over.
Collarbone. Throat. The small scar I found last month that he told me about through a hushed voice.
“Your hands are cold,” he murmurs, catching my fingers and bringing them to his lips. He presses a kiss to my knuckles, then turns me head over to examine my palm. “Your mom said you have your dad’s hands. She mentioned it at dinner, remember? Said you got the Hawthorne farmer hands.”
I laugh softly, remembering the conversation as we were cutting up veggies for dinner. “She says it every time I help with dinner. Used to drive me crazy.”
“Doesn’t anymore?”
I shrug against him, settling deeper into his warmth. “I don’t know. I think I’m starting to understand what she means. There’s something about knowing where you come from. Even the parts that annoy you.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on my wrist. When he speaks, his voice is different—thinner. “My mom used to joke I have my dad’s hands. Big and clumsy, good for nothing delicate.”
I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling—distant—seeing something I can’t.
“Well, that can’t be true,” I say softly. “Your hands make beautiful things.”
He swallows, his throat working. “I don’t talk about them enough—my parents.” He pauses, gathering himself. “They deserve to be talked about.”
“Tell me about them?” I ask, my hand resting over his heart, feeling it beat steady and strong beneath my palm.
It takes him a minute, but when he speaks, his voice is soft.
“Their names were Lisa and Keith. They were amazing parents, the kind you read about in books and think don’t actually exist.” A small smile touches his lips—sad and fond all at once.
“My mom made the world’s worst chocolate chip cookies.
She always put too much salt in them and burned the bottom, but she insisted they were perfect.
And my dad—he couldn’t carry a tune to save his life, but he sang anyway.
Every morning in the shower, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. ”
I smile against his chest, picturing it. Him as a boy, rolling his eyes at his father’s terrible voice, and sneaking the burnt cookies into the trash when his mother wasn’t looking.
“I never went a day not knowing how much they loved me,” he continues, his voice thickening. “Not a single day. They came to every Little League game, every school play, every terrible band recital. Even when they were busy, even when they were tired—one of them was always there.”
His hand stills on my back, his fingers pressing into my skin like he’s anchoring himself.
“I shouldn’t have let them come to that show.” He swallows hard. “I should have checked the weather. Made us stay the night in the city. If I just—”
“Beckett.” I lift my head again, my hand coming to sup his cheek. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know.” He turns his head to press a kiss to my palm. “I know that here.” He taps his temple. “But here?” He touches his chest. “That’s harder.”
I haven’t experienced it the way he has, but I nod in understanding. Getting how grief and guilt tangle together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
“They would’ve loved you,” he says quietly. “They would’ve been so happy I found you.”
My throat tightens, tear pricking at my eyes. “I know I would’ve loved them too,” I whisper. “Anyone who raised you…”
He kisses me then, soft and sweet and full of everything we still haven’t said.
Three sharp knocks at the front door cut through the moment like a knife.
Beckett eases off the couch and grabs his underwear, slipping them on before reaching for the shirt he tore off me earlier and slipping it over his shoulder. His eyes find mine as he buttons the flannel, checking to make sure the blanket covers every inch of me.
“Stay here,” he murmurs.
I can’t see the door from my position, but I hear when he unlocks and opens the door. No other sound follows.
He reappears a moment later carrying a box—plain cardboard, small enough to fit under one arm.
“There’s no one out there,” he says, his voice strange, almost flat. “Just this.”
He sets it on the coffee table, taking a seat next to me. My name is written on top in careful block letters. No address, no postage, just Madison.
The cardboard is cold as I pull the box closer, peeling back the tape and lifting the flaps.
Inside is a porcelain doll with blonde hair and rosy cheeks in a blue dress, its painted face smiling up at me. Beautiful and terrifying all at one.
I lift it out and the tissue underneath shifts revealing a photograph underneath—me and Beckett at Liberty Tavern three days ago. His hand holds mine over the table, a broad smile on his face as my head is thrown back in a loud laugh.
Beneath the photo, in the same block letters is a note that has my blood running cold.
Keep your hands off my man. He’s not yours. Never will be.
The doll’s head lolls back, loose on its neck, and I drop it. It hits the floor with a ceramic crack, the face splitting into a jagged smile.
Beckett’s already on his phone. “Aiden. We need you here. Someone left a package. It was addressed to Madison, but I don’t—it’s the stalker.” He hangs up and sinks onto the couch beside me, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. “He’s on his way. Let’s go get you dressed.”
Beckett has to do all the work, lifting me from the couch and taking me up to my room. He even has to dress me I’m shaking so hard.
The knock comes minutes later, just as Beckett is settling me back on the couch.
Aiden doesn’t wait for Beckett to answer, using his key to come inside. He takes in the scene with one sweep—the broken doll on the floor, the photo. His jaw ticks, a muscle jumping in his cheek and the brother disappears, the cop taking over.
He’s quick—precise—as he analyzes everything around him, asks the questions he needs to decide what the next steps are.
“They’re escalating,” he murmurs, his eyes focused on the doll.
“Aiden,” Beckett calls. “What are—”
“I know you don’t want to, but you gotta call Ian. It’s time for his team to be here.” Aiden’s voice is firm, but understanding. “And have him bring some equipment to set up security. Unless you want to head back to the city early.”
“No,” I blurt, grabbing Beckett’s arm. “We have two more weeks.”
Beckett’s eyes come to mine, pain etched across his features. “If it’s safer—”
“No,” I repeat. “You’re not leaving. We’ll do whatever Aiden and Ian decide, but you’re staying here.”
Beckett pulls me into his side, his arm wrapping tight around my shoulders. I feel the tension in his body, the fear radiating off him in waves. He kisses my temple, his lips linger against my skin, and I feel him slowly relax, breath by breath.
“We’ll catch this perp,” Aiden says, his voice cold and determined. “I promise.”
I nod against Beckett’s chest, not trusting my voice.
I know my brother will do everything in his power to keep that promise, and that’s what I’m going to hold on to. That, and the man holding me like his life depends on me being part of it.