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That baby wasn’t his, but you’d never know it by the way he looked at her. Like she was the most dangerous, fragile thing in the world. Like he knew what it was to lose someone that small. Because he did.
Henry wrapped his arm around my waist then, pulled me against him with that quiet strength that always makes me feel steadier than I am. I felt the rise of his chest, the tightness in his grip, the way he was watching Dallas with a look that said he understood. Maybe better than I ever could.
“He’s something special isn’t he?” Henry rumbled into my ear.
“Fuck yes he is.”
The months slip by and soon the scent of roasted turkey, brown sugar ham, and Aunt Joe’s famous cornbread dressing hits the second you step inside her house. The windows are fogged with heat, the kind that only comes from too many people in one house and an oven that’s been running since dawn. Outside, autumn’s got its grip on the world—cool, crisp, and smoky with the faint snap of burning leaves—but in here, it’s all noise, heat, and home.
I’m planted on the living room rug, back pressed against the couch, with Vivi perched like a queen on my crossed legs. She’s wearing her Thanksgiving dress, the one with pumpkins on the collar, one fist is crammed in my hair.
Chaos. Soft, sticky chaos.
Laughter echoes from the kitchen—deep voices, clanging silverware, and the wet slap of dishwater. Dallas is in there with the rest of the Wilder boys, sleeves rolled up, aprons on, elbows covered in soap bubbles because Aunt Joe declared long ago that no man under her roof eats without learning to clean up after himself.
“Honestly, I think Maddy might do it better than any of us,” Merc calls out from the recliner. He’s splayed out like a man after battle, pants unbuttoned and a nap already trying to pull him under.
“Jesus Christ, can you not?” I shoot him a glare over Vivi’s curls. “There’s a baby on my lap and a fork halfway to my mouth.”
“What?” He lifts his hands like he’s innocent. “You don’t want to hear how your boy licked—”
A chair scrapes. Hard. Sharp. The kind of sound that cuts through chatter like a blade.
Heavy footsteps thunder across the hardwood. Merc’s eyes go wide just before Maddox barrels into view, all fury and heat and purpose.
“Shit—Sugar!” Merc yelps, launching out of the recliner with an agility I didn’t know he still had. He grabs Evie from her place on the couch and practically shoves her in front of him like a human shield. “Don’t let him kill me!”
Maddox is on a warpath, eyes blazing, fists already clenched like he’s trying to keep himself from doing something regrettable. The look on his face could stop a stampede.
“Maddox Cole! Don’t you dare ramsack my house!” Aunt Joe’s voice booms from the kitchen, sharp as a slap.
“Mama!” Merc whines, ducking behind Evie like a child caught stealing cookies.
“Oh, Mama’s outside,” Maddox says, slow and dangerous. “Ain’t nobody coming to save your little ass.”
Evie stands there, arms spread, laughing so hard she has to brace herself against the coffee table. “Come on, big guy,” she manages between giggles. “He was just teasing you.”
“Move, Evie,” Maddox growls, low and tight.
Merc tightens his grip around her like she’s a life raft and he’s ten seconds from drowning.
“Come on,” Evie says, still snorting. “He’s just messing with you!”
Maddox takes another step, towering over her, shadows cast long across the rug.
“I said fucking move.”
Oh shit, big guy. You just fucked up.
Evie’s laughter cuts off like a switch flipped. She lifts her chin, eyes narrowing to slits. “I seem to recall you licking a dresser once, Maddox.”
A beat of silence.
Then Merc absolutely loses it, as I sit there ready to throw up.
“Oh my God! Do you also tongue the couch cushions she sits on?”
Maddox lunges, but Evie holds him back with one hand, still laughing, while Merc yells and scrambles away down the hall.
