The silence stretches between us, elastic and tense. "Yes, you were," Sharma says, not allowing me any excuses.
"How old were you the last time I saw you? Fifteen? Sixteen?"
"Sixteen. As soon as I presented and realized who you were, I didn't dare come around again. I didn't want a mate who constantly tore me down. Even at that young age, I knew I deserved better."
The words land with laser precision. My hand tightens on Jas' bottom, and she whimpers. I force my grip gentle.
I look at Sharma—really look at the woman beside me, not the girl I tortured, not the omega biology chose for me, but Sharma. The girl who earned an advanced degree while others were buying prom dresses. The woman who built walls so high I can't see the top.
"I know," I say.
She stares back. Her soft doe-shaped eyes round, crisp black outlining the warm brown, and her breath trips. Her pulse hammers at her throat, a light sheen glosses her collarbone emitting more of her scent. Calling me. Reeling me into madness. I want to toss my beloved niece in the crib like arag doll and take my omega. Fuck. My control tears against my restraint. She's mine, but she's not mine, and I'm not built for that discrepancy. She should be terrified. I should be terrified—this is exactly what the pact forbade, exactly what destroyed Dad. Instead of fear, I want to lay her open. Want to crawl inside her curvy thighs and live there.
Thank God, Jas finishes the bottle with a satisfied sigh. I lift her, pat her back until the burp comes, soft and milky against my shoulder. Sharma watches the process, before her gaze drops entirely, and she rebuilds her defenses.
"You're good at this," she admits.
"I'll be better with ours."
Her head snaps up. "Don't."
"Why not? You feel it." I lower Jas into the portable crib, settling her on her back, one hand on her belly until her breathing evens into sleep the way I've seen my asshole brother do a thousand times. When I turn back, Sharma has retreated to the window, spine rigid. "Your hands are shaking, Sharma. Your scent is filling this room like smoke. I taste it with every breath."
She whirls, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. "Just stop. You don't give your sad story and expect a clean slate, Roan. You can't waltz in here with your adoring uncle routine and expect me to surrender just because you can soothe a baby."
"I don't expect anything," I snarl, done with this bullshit delay. I cross to her, not giving her space to run. Her back hits the window frame, trapped by prey instinct or the fact that part of her doesn't want to run. "I'm just stating facts. You smell like your temp is higher than Jas's was. Do you know how much control I have to exert not to throw you down on the floor and rut you until you admit you're mine? The bond doesn't care about your resentment. It doesn't care about my apologies."
"Then fuck the bond."
"Gladly." I crowd closer, caging her with my arms on either side of her head. "But you'd have to stop running first."
The screen door bangs open. Sharma jumps away, darting under my arm like a guilty teenager. Her hand flies to her throat. I haven't wanted to kick my brother's ass this badly since we were teenagers. Need to kick his ass, punch him in the gut a few times, and watch him bleed just so that I have some place to put my frustration and anger.
Grayson fills the doorway, sand on his shoes, Lila tucked under his arm, looking actually rested for the first time in days. His eyes narrow, going from me to Sharma and back.
"Everything okay?" he asks, voice low.
"Fine," Sharma says, too fast. She pushes past me, gathering her bag from the chair with trembling hands. "Jas is asleep. She ate three ounces. Temperature's normal."
Lila moves to the crib, checking for herself, but Gray keeps staring at me. The unspoken question hangs there. Are you breaking? Like Dad? I lift my chin. "I was just offering to walk Sharma back to her bungalow."
"I don't need—" Sharma starts.
"I insist." I grab my sunglasses from the counter, sliding them on to hide whatever's showing in my eyes. "Consider it professional courtesy. Wouldn't want our top consultant getting lost."
She glares, but she's breathing hard, and the heat in her breath isn't from anger. The slick is readying her — I smell it now, sharp and sweet beneath the mask of her perfume. The walk is going to kill me.
We leave Gray and Lila murmuring over the crib, stepping out into the blinding white light of the island midday. The path to the guest bungalows winds through palm scrub and hibiscus, the ocean crashing to our left in rhythmic percussion. Sharma walks fast, heels digging into the crushed shell path, arms wrapped around her middle like she's holding herself together. I keeppace, letting her set the speed, watching the tension ripple down her spine. "You really don't have to do this." She tries again.
"You're going into heat," I say, stating the obvious.
"I fucking know it," she growls back.
"What happened? I thought your suppressants were keeping everything in check."
"Yeah, well, they don't work so well when they're waiting at the airport's baggage terminal for someone to fucking find them."
"Oh, I hadn't realized. Is that why?"
