"You think I want to feel this way?" His breath is hot against my face, his body so close I can feel the heat of him. "You think I wanted to fall for someone barely a year after losing her? You think I planned to want you so much it physically hurts to be in the same room and not touch you?"
"Then why won't you?" My voice breaks. "Why do you keep pulling away?"
"Because I'm terrified." The admission seems to cost him something, his jaw clenching with the effort of saying it out loud. Tears track down his cheeks that he doesn't bother to hide. "Terrified of what it means to want you this much. Terrified of the guilt that comes with it. Terrified of opening myself up to losing someone else. But watching you hold yourself back, watching you convince yourself you're not wanted, watching you hurt because I'm too much of a coward to reach for what I want, that's worse. That's so much worse."
"I'm scared too," I whisper, my hands coming up to rest on his chest. I can feel his heart pounding beneath my palms, racing as fast as mine. "Scared that I'm not enough. Scared that I'm toobroken to be what you need. Scared that this will all fall apart and I'll be left more destroyed than Vincent left me."
"You're not broken." His voice is fierce, absolute, even as tears continue to fall. "And I'm more scared of losing you than I am of feeling guilty about moving on."
"I'm not trying to replace her," I say, reaching up to cup his face, my thumbs wiping away his tears. "I could never replace her. She was their Omega, the kids' mother, your sister. I'm not trying to be her or fill her shoes or erase her memory."
"I know." His hands come up to cover mine, pressing them more firmly against his face. "I know that. But the guilt doesn't always listen to logic."
"She loved you," I say, my voice firm despite my own tears. "Everything you've told me about her, everything I've seen in her photographs and in the way she raised those kids, she loved you fiercely. And I think she'd be angry that you're denying yourself happiness because you're worried about being disloyal to her memory."
His eyes are wet, more tears tracking down his cheeks. "Silas said something similar. That Evie would kick my ass for waiting this long."
"Then maybe you should listen to him." I let my thumbs stroke his cheekbones, feeling the dampness there. "I'm not asking you to stop grieving her or to forget her or to move on like she never existed. I'm just asking you to let yourself have something good again. To let yourself want without feeling guilty about it."
Then he's kissing me, fierce and desperate, pouring everything he feels into the press of his lips. It's not gentle or careful like his previous kisses have been. It's raw and needy, taking what he wants while still being careful not to hurt me.
I melt into him immediately, my body recognizing what it needs even if my brain is still trying to catch up. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and I feel myself submitting ina way I never have before. Not giving up control because I'm forced to, but offering it freely because I trust him to take care of me.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his chest heaving.
"We should get you home," he says after a long moment, his voice rough. "Your heat is coming soon and we need to make arrangements. Talk to Dylan about the kids. Stock up on supplies. Make sure you're comfortable and safe."
"Okay." I let him help me straighten my clothes, fix my hair, make myself presentable again.
"And Amelia?" He waits until I meet his eyes. "Tonight. My room. If you're willing. I've held back long enough."
Heat floods through me that has nothing to do with my approaching heat. "Yes. I'm willing."
"Good." He presses one more kiss to my forehead, gentle and sweet. "Now let's go home."
And when he says home, I realize he means it. Not their house. Home. Mine as much as theirs.
The thought makes my eyes sting with fresh tears, but this time they're happy ones.
I bury my face in his chest and let myself cry one more time, all the fear and uncertainty and relief pouring out in heaving sobs that shake my whole body. He just holds me through it, one hand stroking my back, murmuring reassurance against my hair.
When I finally stop crying, my face is probably a mess and my eyes are definitely swollen. Hunter produces a surprisingly clean handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to me with a small smile.
"Keep it," he says when I try to hand it back. "Consider it my first courting gift. A very practical, very unromantic handkerchief."
The absurdity of it makes me laugh, watery and broken but genuine. "It's perfect."
Silas
I'm in the kitchen cleaning up from dinner when Hunter finally walks through the door at almost eight o'clock. The kids are upstairs watching a movie with Wyatt, their laughter drifting down occasionally, a sound that's become so normal I almost don't notice it anymore.
Hunter's carrying what looks like half a dozen shopping bags, all emblazoned with the logo from that nesting store downtown, the expensive one that specializes in Omega supplies. The bagsare overflowing with blankets and pillows and what looks like fabric in every texture imaginable.
I can't help but laugh, leaning against the counter with my arms crossed. "I was wondering why you didn’t come home with Amelia, skipped dinner, and then didn't answer your fucking phone. What is all this?"
Hunter sets the bags down carefully, like they contain something precious and breakable. "She keeps sleeping in your beds," he says, not quite meeting my eyes. "Yours and Wyatt's. But she needs her own space. A real nest, not just borrowed beds." He pauses, his jaw working like he's chewing on difficult words. "We can't have her heat in your room, Silas. That's your space, yours and Evie's, and I won't disrespect that. I won't ask you to give up what's left of her there."
The consideration behind his words makes my chest tight. He's right that my room still feels like Evie's space in a lot of ways. Her photos on the dresser, her favorite blanket still folded at the foot of the bed even though I can't bring myself to use it. The faint trace of her lavender scent that I swear I can still catch sometimes even though it's been a year.
