When had I ever stood a chance against the three of them?
Chapter 55
Alec
Rowan’s words were deliberately brutal, and they landed exactly as intended—she gasped beneath them. I nuzzled into her neck as Rowan peeled her top down, exposing her flushed nipples to the cool air. The mattress dipped when Nick joined us.
I smiled against her skin.
“Chicken,” I murmured, sliding my tongue along Ella’s earlobe until she hissed.
“My face is too pretty to be damaged.”
Ella snorted softly.
Rowan closed in on her bare breasts.
Words fell away after that. There was nothing left to say as we showed her exactly what she needed.
Us.
???
Ella was struggling to adapt to the news, and part of me wondered if she might try to harm the baby. But then she’d slip into that distant, dreamy look—and I’d catch her hand resting over her stomach, protective without realising it. The doubt began to ebb.
We kept a close eye on her, even when she was sitting right beside one of us.
She was angry, but she didn’t voice it. We’d left her satiated and drifting in the bed while we cleaned up the mess and the shattered glass. Still, I noticed the flare of her nostrils, the way she’d push a hand away, the lethal glare she thought we were blind to. Nick ignored it. Rowan read it.
I enjoyed every bit of the resistance.
It would be the icing on the cake if it was my baby claiming her space right now.
Genetic mutation, my arse.
She should consider my gene pool a blessing.
???
I lay back on the bed fully clothed, deliberately leaving my feet crossed and hanging off the edge of the mattress, watching as Ella put the finishing touches on her hair. She curled the loose strands that framed her face with slow concentration, tongue caught briefly between her teeth as she checked the mirror from every angle.
The dress was simple—deceptively so—but devastating on her. The top was black, long-sleeved and fitted, clinging neatly to her shoulders and arms, while the fabric that cinched her waist bloomed into a peach-and-pink floral print. It drew the eye straight to the narrow line of her middle. A small V-shaped panel at her belly was edged with tiny white pearls, subtle but impossible to ignore. My gaze kept drifting back there, again and again, like it had its own gravity.
She slipped into a pair of black peep-toe heels, the oversized brooches on the front catching the bedroom spotlights and scattering light across the walls. Sparkling. Deliberate. The whole look gave me a distinct fifties—or maybe early sixties—feel. All it needed was a little more flare in the skirt and she’d look like she’d stepped out of a vintage photograph.
“You look beautiful,” I said, unable to stop myself. Then, grinning, I added,“Just think how pretty our babies will be.”
I snickered, but my attention sharpened when she reached for the perfume bottle.
Givenchy.
She weighed it in her hand, turning slowly toward me with a look that was far too considered. Far too calm. There was something decisively wicked in the way her eyes flicked up to meet mine.
I froze.
Already calculating the distance to the nearest pillow.
For a split second, I was convinced she was about to lob the bottle straight at my head—but instead she popped the lid, spritzed the air, and dabbed it neatly along her wrists and neck. Casual. Innocent. As if she hadn’t just contemplated violence.
