Naomi POV
Not too long after, Alex wakes up.
His small cry drifts through the baby monitor on my nightstand.
I set my phone down, shove it into my pocket, and push myself off the bed.
My feet are bare on the cold floor as I hurry down the hall to his room.
He is standing in his cot, clutching the wooden rail, his gray eyes wet with tears. His wolf lies on the mattress behind him.
"Hey, little one," I whisper, scooping him into my arms. "I'm here. I'm here."
He buries his face in my neck, and his crying slows to soft hiccups.
I carry him to the bathroom down the hall. The water is warm when I test it with my elbow, just like Mary showed me.
I bathe him gently, singing a soft song Mama used to sing to me.
He splashes a little, and I laugh. His eyes light up at the sound.
After his bath, I wrap him in a fluffy towel and change his diaper.
He is cooperative tonight, kicking his feet but not fussing.
I dress him in clean pajamas—blue, with little wolves on them. I smile at the coincidence.
"Moon would be proud," I tell him.
He looks at me with those big gray eyes and says, "Moon is my friend."
"Yes, he is."
I feed him mashed carrots and applesauce.
He eats most of it, though some ends up on his chin and on my shirt. I do not mind.
Then I take him to the garden.
The sun is low now, casting long shadows across the grass.
Alex loves the garden. He points at the flowers, at the birds, at the clouds.
He babbles words I cannot always understand, but I nod and smile and pretend I do.
We lie on a blanket under the big oak tree.
His head rests on my arm, and he stares up at the leaves moving in the breeze.
His breathing slows. His eyelids droop.
He falls asleep with his hand wrapped around my finger.
I stay still for a long time, not wanting to wake him. The garden is quiet.
The world feels peaceful. For a moment, I forget where I am.
I forget the cold man who owns this house. I forget the warnings and the whispers.
I just hold this small boy and pretend he is mine.
---
Eventually, I carry him back inside and lay him in his cot.
He does not stir. I pull the blanket up to his chin and tuck his wolf beside him.
"I'll be right down the hall," I whisper. "Sleep tight, little one."
I tiptoe to the door and slip out.
Now I need lunch. Or dinner. I am not sure what time it is anymore.
I walk to the kitchen, but Mary has already gone home for the day.
I find bread and cheese in the refrigerator and make myself a simple sandwich.
I eat standing at the counter, staring out the window at the darkening sky.
After I finish, I wash my plate and head to my room.
My room is small but comfortable. A bed with white sheets. A wooden chair by the window.
A bathroom with a shower that has good water pressure—better than my apartment, anyway.
I sit on the bed and pull out my phone. I scroll through messages. Mia sent me a funny video of her cat falling off a chair.
I laugh and send her a voice note: "I miss you. This place is strange, but the boy is sweet."
Tanya sent a picture of her new puppy. I send back a row of heart emojis.
I read a few chapters of a romance novel on my phone—the kind where the man is brooding and cold but secretly has a heart of gold.
I smile at the fiction. Men like that do not exist in real life.
Then I play a mobile game, matching colorful candies, until my eyes grow heavy.
I fall asleep with my phone still in my hand.
---
A cry jolts me awake.
Alex.
I spring into action, my heart pounding. I throw off the blanket and rush down the hall.
His room is dark, but the nightlight casts a soft glow.
He is standing in his cot, tears streaming down his face. His wolf is on the floor.
"Shh, shh," I coo, picking him up. He clings to me, his small body shaking. "Bad dream?"
He does not answer. He just cries.
I hold him tight and rock him back and forth. I sing Mama's lullaby—the one about the sun coming out tomorrow. Slowly, his crying fades to sniffles.
I bathe him again, just to calm him. Warm water. Gentle hands. He relaxes in my arms.
I change his diaper and put him in fresh pajamas.
Then I sit in the rocking chair by the window and rock him, singing softly, until his eyes close and his breathing evens out.
I wait a few extra minutes to be sure he is deep asleep.
Then I lay him down gently, tuck his wolf under his arm, and tiptoe to the door.
I need to retire for the night.
---
Back in my room, I close the door and lean against it, exhaling slowly. My body is tired. My mind is tired. But my heart is full.
I strip off my clothes—the ones stained with applesauce and baby lotion—and leave them in a pile on the floor.
I walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower.
The water is hot. Steam fills the small room.
I step under the spray and close my eyes, letting the heat melt the tension from my shoulders.
Then I hear a crash.
Glass shattering.
My head whips toward the bathroom door. My heart slams against my ribs.
I step out of the shower, dripping wet, without grabbing a towel.
Water pools at my feet as I creep to the bathroom door. I open it a crack and peek into the hallway.
Dark. Empty.
No one there.
I hold my breath, listening. Nothing. Just the distant hum of the mansion's heating system.
Maybe I imagined it, I think.
Then my phone alarm blares from the nightstand.
I jump, my hand flying to my chest. I stomp angrily to the phone and swipe the alarm off.
My heart is racing now. I cannot think straight.
I notice the shower is still running. I go back and turn it off.
On my way out, I grab a towel and wrap it around my body.
I stand at the edge of my bed, drying my arms, my legs, my hair.
The room is dark except for the moonlight slipping through the curtains.
Then I hear a voice.
Low. Thick. Familiar.
"Naomi."
I freeze.
My eyes widen. My blood turns cold and hot at the same time.
I turn my head slowly.
Kaelen Aaron stands in my doorway. He has pushed the door fully open.
He is leaning against the frame, his eyes dark, unfocused. He smells like whiskey.
He steps inside. He closes the door behind him.
His footsteps are strange—heavy, unsteady. He is drunk. Very drunk.
"Sir," I whisper. "What are you—"
He does not answer. He walks toward me, slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking prey.
His gray eyes drag over my body, and I realize I am wearing only a towel.
I clutch the fabric tighter against my chest.
He stops in front of me. So close I can feel the heat of his body.
So close I can smell the whiskey on his breath.
He leans down. His lips press against my bare shoulder.
A shock runs through me. My breath catches.
"Sir," I say, my voice shaking. "This isn't right."
I push him back slightly with my right hand, my left still holding the towel tight. I take a small step back.
He looks at me. His eyes are darker than I have ever seen them. Hungry. Lost.
"She left," he murmurs. "Everyone leaves."
Before I can speak, his hand shoots out and grabs my forearm. His grip is firm, not painful, but unyielding.
His other hand tugs at my towel.
It falls to the floor.
I gasp. I want to move. I want to run. But something in his eyes—something broken and desperate—holds me still.
That night, I sleep with Mr. Aaron.
I am carried away by his good looks, by the sadness in his gray eyes, by the way his hands tremble when they touch me.
I allow something I should not have allowed.
And it sets off a disastrous chain of reactions.
--