I think of the Blue Note with its front-room respectability and back-room operations. The perfect blend of legitimate enterprise and underground connections.
“Victor had no children,” Rowan continues. “When he died eight years ago, he left me the Blue Note. Said I was the son he never had.”
The words carry affection for the man I’ve never met, and I find myself envious of him. Rowan hadsomeone to watch out for him, even after the charge that sent him to juvie.
“Saint came from juvie, too,” Rowan says, offering me coffee now. “I met him during my second year inside. He protected the smaller kids, including me, before I grew into my size. When I got the Blue Note, he was my first hire.”
The mug warms my palms, steam rising to caress my face. I sip from the rim, the bitter liquid cutting through the sweetness.
“Orien was from my old neighborhood,” Rowan continues, absently tracing one of the marks he left on my collarbone. “Quiet kid, always watching, cataloging everything. His mother cleaned houses for rich people in Skyhaven. She died when he was fifteen. He learned how to make problems disappear.”
I wonder if Rowan collects broken people on purpose, if he recognizes the value in those that society discards. If that’s how he views me, as another damaged piece to add to his collection.
“Ghost?” I ask, curious about the mismatched eyes and absent scent.
“That’s a story for another time.” Rowan’s expression closes, telling me I’ve hit a boundary. “Your turn. How did you become Lena’s guardian?”
The question cuts through the warm haze of foodand comfort. My muscles tense, appetite vanishing as memories flood back of the dingy apartment where we were born, the constant fear, the calculations of how much formula we could afford until the next welfare check came in the mail.
Rowan catches the change, and his hand finds mine. “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready.”
But I owe him this much after he’s opened his home to Lena and me without question and shared pieces of himself.
I set the coffee mug on the nightstand, gathering myself for the story I’ve never shared in full.
“My parents were addicts before they had me.” The words fall from my lips without emotion, facts separated from the feelings they should carry. “Meth was their preferred drug, though they weren’t picky if they got their hands on some pills. I was an accident. Lena was an even bigger one, nine years later.”
I trace the corner of the breakfast tray with my fingertip, focusing on the smooth wood rather than Rowan. “Mom was six months pregnant before she realized it. Too late to ‘take care of it’ as she wanted to.”
Rowan sits still beside me, his breathing so quiet I almost forget he’s there.
“Dad was working construction back then, offand on between binges. Mom cleaned hotel rooms when she was sober enough.” I push the half-eaten breakfast away, appetite gone. “They were high when Lena was born. I was the one who called an ambulance when Mom went into labor on our bathroom floor. God, she beat the shit out of me for that.”
The memory of blood on cracked linoleum rises, the dispatcher asking questions I couldn’t answer, and the paramedics pushing past me to reach her.
“They kept Lena in the hospital for a week to wean her off the drugs. My parents were going to give her up, but they found out they could get more money from the government if they kept her.”
My throat tightens, but I force the words out. “I visited every day after school to learn how to hold her, feed her, and change her. The nurses thought I was sweet, playing big brother. They didn’t realize I was taking notes because no one else would care for her once she came home.”
Rowan’s hand finds mine, his thumb tracing circles on my palm, and the small comfort is easier to accept than words.
“I was only nine when she came home. I had to stand on a chair to heat the formula on the stove. I stole diapers from convenience stores when moneywent to drugs instead. Learned which bill collectors to avoid and which neighbors might watch her when I had to go to school. Every day, I was terrified I’d come home and find her dead or sold.”
Rowan draws me toward him, one hand at my waist, the other cradling the back of my neck. For a heartbeat, I resist before my body yields. He guides me into his lap, and I curl into his chest, my ear pressed to the steady rhythm of his heart. Tension drains from me in increments as his warmth spreads through the parts of me that have been cold for years.
When his arms encircle me, I exhale, a shudder running through me as I allow myself to let someone share my burden.
“When I presented as an Omega at fifteen, things got worse.” My finger trails over Rowan’s chest, tracing his tattoo. “Suddenly, I had value beyond babysitting. Some Alpha offered my dad money for me outside a bar. He came home with this gleam in his eye, talking about how I could start contributing to the family.”
Rowan’s arms tighten around me, muscles tensing. A sound builds in his chest, not quite a growl, but a protective vibration against my back where I’m pressed to him. His jaw clenches, thetendons in his neck standing out as he swallows whatever words might have escaped.
“I ran the same night. Took what I could carry, left Lena with the neighbor, and disappeared.” The admission snags in my throat. “I was so ashamed to leave her behind, but she was only six. There’s no way I could have protected her on the streets. But leaving her there with them…”
Rowan rumbles in comfort, a deep vibration that melts my bones, his broad hand stroking slow circles between my shoulder blades, as if offering reassurance to the younger version of me who needed it most.
I swallow hard. “For months, I lived on the streets before I joined up with a crew working petty theft and break-ins. One of the older guys, Max, taught me locks. He said I had the right fingers for it, sensitive enough for the delicate work.”
I flex my fingers, remembering the hours spent practicing on discarded locks, the triumph of the first click giving way beneath my touch.
