Page 26 of Knot The Nanny We Planned

It rolls through me like a storm, hot, violent, and barely contained. My Beta instincts don't surge the way Alpha instincts do. I don't growl or snarl or feel the urge to rip something apart with my teeth. My rage is quieter. Colder. The kind of anger that calculates, strategizes, dismantles.

She hurt Willow.

Serena, the woman who couldn't hold our attention because the match was never real, went to that park and said something to Willow. Something that turned her scent from honey to vinegar. Something that took the light out of her eyes and replaced it with the dead look of someone who's been told they don't matter.

I know what Serena said. I don't need to hear the words. I know because I know Serena, and I know Willow, and I know exactly which insecurities to target.

You're just a nanny. Just a match. Just a body. They'll get bored. They got bored of me.

The thing is, Serena wasn't wrong about herself. The match with her did fade. We did get bored. Not cruelly, not intentionally, but the connection frayed because it was never strong enough to last. She was a single match, a biological convenience, and when the chemistry faded, what was left was... nothing.

But Willow is different.

I felt it the moment she walked in. Not the Alpha lightning-strike that JD experienced, not the predatory hunger that Knox couldn't hide. What I felt was deeper. Quieter. Like a key sliding into a lock I didn't know existed. Like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place.

She smells like home. Not metaphorically. Literally. Honey and vanilla and something underneath, something warm and soft that my brain categorizes as safe. As belonging. As mine.

Ours.

And Serena went to that park and poisoned it.

I stand up, and I walk to Lily's door. I know Willow is inside there, still. I can scent her.

I stand there for a long moment, my hand raised to knock, listening. The penthouse is old enough that the walls have character, real plaster, not drywall, and if I press my ear to the surface, I can hear sounds from the other side.

Lily's breathing. Slow, even. Asleep.

And under that, so quiet it's almost nothing, the sound of someone crying.

Not loud crying. Not sobbing. The kind of crying that happens when you've trained yourself to be silent about it. The kind that comes out in small, hitching breaths and muffled whimpers, the sound of someone who learned a long time ago that nobody comes when you cry.

I know that sound. I made that sound. In foster home after foster home, in the dark, in the corner of a room that wasn't mine, I made that exact sound.

And it destroys me.

I knock. Softly, and the crying stops instantly. Silence. Then a sniff, a rustle of fabric, the creak of the rocking chair.

"Willow." I keep my voice low. "Open the door."

"I'm fine, Deklan. Lily's napping."

"I know she's napping. I'm not here for Lily." I press my palm flat against the door. "I'm here for you."

Silence. Long enough that I think she's going to ignore me. Then the latch clicks, and the door opens a crack.

One eye. Red-rimmed. Wet. Looking at me like she's trying to decide whether to slam the door or let me in.

"What do you want?"

"To talk."

"I don't want to talk."

"I know." I lean my shoulder against the doorframe. "But I need to. And I think you need to hear what I have to say, even if you don't want to."

She stares at me for a long moment. Then she opens the door wider and steps back.

I step in. Close the door behind me. The room is dim, curtains drawn, the only light coming from the sliver of afternoon sun leaking through the edges. Lily sleeps in her crib, tiny chest rising and falling, oblivious.