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Fumbling with the laundry basket,I approach the nursery to the sound of low, haunting cello notes.

The melody is both mournful and soothing, resonating in my chest like a wisp of shadow. As the melody swells and recedes, my eyes flutter closed, allowing the music to paint vivid pictures in my mind. The corridor fades away, leaving only the rich, velvety sound that wraps around me, each stroke of the bow pulling me further into repose.

When I peek inside, it’s to the sight of Wicker in the rocking chair that Story and her Lords had gifted to me. In front of him, Justice is resting in the bassinet, silent and still.

Wicker is shirtless, and even from the doorway, I can smell a hint of his body wash, my body unwinding longingly at the scent. He looks deep in concentration as he draws the bow over thestrings, his blonde hair damp and unruly, muscles shifting with each note.

He’s fuckingexquisite.

With a lump in my throat, I enter, going straight to the closet, and abruptly, the music ends.

“Hey, Red.” There’s a clatter, and then the sounds of him setting the cello against the wall, but I don’t see it, engrossed in folding the laundry. “This kid goes through more clothes than a hockey team during an entire season,” he says, coming up behind me. I wait forsomething—a kiss, a lingering touch—but nothing comes, and I take a small step to the side to open the dresser drawer and tuck a stack of onesies inside.

“Preaching to the choir.” Picking up the basket, I start for the closet door when his hand clamps down on my arm.

His blue eyes pierce right through me. “Let me do that.”

“I’ve got it.” I wriggle from his grip and continue my chores, willing the lump in my throat away.

Sighing, he props himself against the closet door, his body a long, muscular line. “You okay? You seem… agitated.”

Hot tears prick at my eyes.Dammit. “I’m fine.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then asks, “Did something happen at the exam?”

“No,” I answer, recalling that Lex sent me off with a promise to buy more pads. “Nothing happened. I’m just tired.”

He cocks his head, glancing at the bassinet. “Then stop cleaning and go take a nap. I just put J.J. down. He’s kind of like the old fogies I played for at that insurance fundraiser over the summer. Hearing me play puts him right to sleep.”

I shake out a small shirt. “The minute I fall asleep, he’ll want to eat. It’s just easier this way.” I blink away the tears and focus on organizing the baby items over the changing table. Wipes, powder, rash cream, diapers…

“Red,” he reaches for me again, this time wrapping his arms around me. His fingers graze my belly, and I try to push him off.

“Don’t.” I inhale, flinching away. “Please, don’t touch me there.”

His blue eyes are wide, palms held up in the air. “Why? Does it hurt?”

My fists clench. “No, Whitaker, it doesn’t hurt.” Humiliatingly, a tear escapes, and I watch as he realizes, his stunned gaze following its track down my cheek. “It’s… gross.I’mgross. I’m fat and smushy,” I wave my hands around my body, “my tits feel like they’ve been through a meat grinder, and my vagina had the equivalent of a watermelon pushed through it. I’m an abomination and you know it. Youallknow it.”

“That,” he says, swallowing long enough to gain his thoughts, “that was a lot. And not even remotely true, you arenotgross.”

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror beside the changing table. My hair hasn’t been brushed in god knows how many days, my shirt has spit-up stains on it, my right boob is bigger than the left because Justice, like his father, seems to prefer it. Rubbing my eyes, I admit, “I mean, it's not like I thought I’d look like a celebrity after leaving the hospital, but I thought maybe I’d get to take a shower.”

When was the last time that happened? Two? Three days ago?

Wicker deflates, reaching out to stroke my dry, knotty hair. “Red, it’s only been a few weeks. The book said it’s perfectly normal to take?—”

I snap, “A few weeks, and not one of you has made a move on me.”

He blinks slowly, utterly frozen. “You want… to have sex with us?”

“No,” I admit, not completely sure what Idowant.

“Okay.” He tilts his head, mulling over his words like he really doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. It’s like I’ve always said. Whitaker Ashby may be pretty, but he isn’t dumb. “You want us to want to have sex with you?”

I sigh. “Maybe. I just…” I grab my boob with both hands. “I want to be something other than a dairy cow.”

Wicker’s eyes drop to my tits, brow arching enticingly. “First of all, you have to know my cock gets hard when you do that.” Pushing off the jamb of the closet door, he stalks toward me. “And second, I’m hard all the time—probably more than before—I’ve just gotten better at hiding it.”