Having Amelia there for the occasional night is one thing, but a full heat? That's different. That's permanent in a way I'm not sure I'm ready for. And Hunter knew that without me having to say it.
"Thank you," I say quietly, the words inadequate for what I'm feeling. "For understanding that."
Hunter just nods, that silent communication we've always had speaking louder than words.
"So you decided to buy out the entire store?" I ask, but there's no heat in it. Just fondness for this man who shows his care through action rather than words.
"I want it to be perfect." Hunter finally looks at me, his hazel eyes intense. "She deserves perfect. After everything she's beenthrough, after what Vincent did to her, she deserves a space that's completely hers. Where she feels safe and protected and can let go without worrying."
I snort, unable to help myself. "So you did pick up on that. The heat, I mean."
"Of course I did." Hunter's expression shifts into something almost smug. "She smells like rose and honeysuckle now instead of just rose. Her scent is changing, becoming richer. The blockers are failing completely. I'd say we have maybe forty-eight hours before it hits properly."
The timeline makes anxiety spike in my chest. Two days isn't a lot of time to prepare, to make sure everything's ready, to get the kids sorted out. But we'll manage. We always do.
"Amelia explained some things about Vincent," I interject, catching onto the way Hunter’s face darkens. "About what he did to her. How he treated her heats like they were something disgusting instead of natural. How he'd sedate her or leave her alone to suffer through them." Hunter’s hands clench into fists at his sides, a low growl rumbling through his chest as I continue. "The restraining order paperwork has details that make me want to drive to wherever he is and solve this problem with my fists."
The fury in his growl matches what's been simmering in my own chest since Dylan showed us those text messages. Not just the recent ones, but the entire history. Hundreds of hateful, threatening messages that Vincent sent over the months since she left. The escalating violence in his words. The absolute certainty that he sees Amelia as property he's entitled to reclaim.
"There are hospital records," I add quietly, my own anger barely controlled. "From the times she 'fell' or 'walked into doors.' Dylan had them all pulled. Bruises that match fingerprints. A fractured rib. Burns on her wrists from zip ties."My voice goes rough. "And she doesn't remember half of it. Her brain blocked it out to protect her."
Hunter's expression goes murderous, his jaw clenching so hard I can hear his teeth grind. "Which is why the restraining order is so detailed. Dylan made sure every incident was documented, every piece of evidence included. But she has to sign it. Has to acknowledge what happened to her. And she doesn't know the full extent yet."
"When are we going to talk about him?" I ask quietly. "Really talk about him and what we're going to do when he shows up. Because he will show up, Hunter. Men like that don't just let go."
The sound of footsteps on the stairs cuts off whatever Hunter was about to say. We both turn to find Amelia descending, her hair loose around her shoulders, wearing one of Wyatt's shirts and sleep shorts. She's flushed, a light sheen of sweat on her skin despite the cool evening air. The pre-heat is progressing faster than any of us expected. Her scent has changed too, richer and sweeter, the rose and honeysuckle Hunter mentioned filling the kitchen.
She looks soft and rumpled and beautiful, and the spike of want that hits me is almost overwhelming.
But there's something else in her expression. Not just confusion, but fear. The kind of wide-eyed terror that tells me she heard more than we wanted her to.
"What about Vincent?" she asks, her voice small and shaking. "What has he done? What hospital records?"
Fuck. She heard us. Hunter and I exchange a look, both of us realizing we need to handle this carefully. The last thing we want is to send her into a panic attack when her heat is so close.
"Amelia—" I start, but she's already shaking her head.
"Don't." Her hands are trembling, wrapping around herself like she's trying to hold herself together. "Don't try to protectme from this. What hospital records? What incidents don't I remember?"
Amelia pulls out her phone with trembling hands and calls Dylan, putting it on speaker. He answers on the second ring, his voice tight with something that might be resignation.
"Hey, sis. What's up?"
"Dylan, what's going on?" Amelia's voice is steady but I can hear the fear underneath. "Hunter and Silas were talking about Vincent. About hospital records and incidents I don't remember. What aren't you telling me?"
There's a long pause, and I can practically hear Dylan weighing his options. When he speaks again, his voice is gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. "Fuck. I was going to ease you into this tomorrow. I didn't want you to find out like this."
"Find out what?" Her voice breaks on the question.
"Sis, I got everything together for the restraining order. All the evidence, all the documentation, everything we need to make it permanent and enforceable. But I can't sign for you. It has to be your signature, your acknowledgment of what happened."
"Okay?" She draws the word out, confused about why this is a problem. "I'll sign it. That's fine. I want the restraining order."
"The paperwork is... extensive," Dylan says carefully. "It includes every documented incident from your relationship with Vincent. Hospital visits, police reports from neighbors who called in domestic disturbances, photos I took of your injuries when you'd let me see them. Some of the incidents you told me about but might not remember clearly now. Some you never told me about but I documented anyway."
Her face goes pale, understanding dawning. She sways slightly on her feet, that pre-heat dizziness that comes with temperature fluctuations. I move closer, ready to steady her, but she locks her knees and stays upright through sheer force of will.
"What kind of incidents?"
