The latch catches behind him with a click that lands in the center of my chest and stays there.
I wait. Count to sixty. My hands shake now, the tremor starting in my fingers and radiating upward until my teeth chatter. The warmth in my belly spreads, becoming a cramp, a fist of need closing around my uterus. Slick gathers between my thighs, soaking through the cotton of my underwear, the chemical suppression failing hour by hour. My vision tunnels at the edges, gray creeping in. I need those suppressants.
I collapse into the wicker chair by the window, the woven reeds creaking beneath my weight, digging diamond patterns into my shoulder blades through the thin fabric of my dress. The sound is loud in the sudden quiet. I press both hands against my stomach, fingers splayed, digging into the fabric, breathing through my nose, fighting the biological tide that demands I run after him, submit, offer my neck. The need claws throughmy abdomen, sharp and unrelenting, a cramp that doubles me forward.
The DNA suppressant replacement dose is lost somewhere in airline purgatory, probably thawing in a cargo hold, and without it, I won't make it through the week. I won't make it through tomorrow. The fever is starting—low grade, but my skin burns with it, the sheen on my forehead confirming what I deny.
The independence I've built—line item by line item, spreadsheet cell by spreadsheet cell—teeters on a hormonal edge. Roan Vaughn thinks he'll win by force of will. He doesn't know my defenses are already bleeding out—hemorrhaging faster than I can patch the exposure.
The orange and red bleeding through the shutters press against my eyelids, and I let them close. Outside, the sunset drains itself dry across the veranda. Faster than my resolve. Faster than the last dregs of my chemical armor.
The wicker presses temporary tattoos of my failure into my skin. Outside, the waves crash—rhythmic, inevitable, indifferent to the shore's resistance. My body has the same indifference to my orders. And I am running out of walls.
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 noalpha 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 thatcomes 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."
