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Somehow, I’m not expecting it when he surges up to kiss me, a hand tangled in my hair. It’s sloppier than I’m used to from him, all serrated teeth and clipped grunts, and when I palm his chest, it’s rock solid. Tense. Strung so tight I can practically feel him vibrating with restraint.

“You won’t hurt me,” I promise, willing him to let go, “if that’s what you’re thinking about.”

His mouth curves deliciously against mine. “Nah, I’m just thinking about how much I want to fuck your tits, Red.” He punctuates this with a gentle pinch to my nipple, rolling the peak between forefinger and thumb, and I whimper.

Honest to godwhimper.

“Fuck, you’re so hot when you’re like this,” he says, panting. He never stops spurring me on, the hand on my hip moving tothe small of my back, forceful as it yanks me into him. “Never had as many wet dreams as I’ve had after meeting you.”

It’s his dirty mouth that tips me over the edge, along with my wet panties and his touch. The combination is too much, and the orgasm trips through me, like releasing a series of locks. I feel it all over—from my nipples, down my spine, to the throbbing heat in my clit. Wicker grunts, stilling my body with his big hands. He pumps furiously, back arching as he comes a second time, then falls flat on the pillow.

“That shouldn’t have been as hot as it was,” he admits, throwing an arm over his forehead as his chest rises and falls. His eyes cut to the top right corner of the room. “Hope the boys enjoyed it.”

I laugh, endorphins rushing through my body. “A dry hump? Not quite the X-rated material they’re used to.”

“Rosi, you’re not watching the right porn.” Gently, he rolls me off his body, onto my back, bending my knees. His nose wrinkles at the front of his shorts before he discards them. When he climbs out of bed to walk to the bathroom, I can’t help but watch the way he moves, naked and shameless, the muscles in his ass shifting like art.

For a while, the faucet runs, and then he returns with a wet cloth. “It’s warm,” he tells me, easing off my soiled panties. It’s not even awkward when he wipes away the sticky mess. “Don’t do that with Pace. We’ll be cleaning up spunk for a week.”

Cleaned up and back in my gown, I settle back on my side, pulling one of the extra blankets to my chest. Wick gets back in and quickly clears the distance, dragging us together.

I feel his hand rest on my thigh.

“You never touch my belly,” I say, feeling his heartbeat against my back. “Does it bother you?”

Softly, he confesses, “Not in the way you’re thinking.” His eyelids are heavy, gaze wandering aimlessly around the room. “I wish it were Lex’s.”

He’s right. That’s not what I’m thinking. “Why?”

“Because he’s ready for this and I’m not.” I expect him to move but he doesn’t. If anything, he draws me closer. “Lex grew up ten years ago—probably right after the first beating. He still remembers what it was like to have parents. A family. He’s talked about it before, how it was a feeling he had. This security that was there one day and gone the next. I don’t even have that.”

I rest my hand on his, linking our fingers. “Just because you didn’t have something doesn’t mean you never can.”

His chest twitches with a snort. “I’m not a creator, Red. That’s not what I was made for.”

I think about this for a long moment, watching his chest expand and contract. “Creation and death are two sides of the same coin.” The words from my attacker that night in the garden still haunt me. They’re Ashby’s words, too. “You’re the coin, Wicker. You’re more than one thing.”

His fingertip taps mine in a mindless rhythm. “That’s the problem, Red. I don’t know what I am anymore. So what the fuck am I supposed to tell this kid? Is he an Ashby? Is he a Kayes? Is he a Sinclaire?” He exhales, the line of his brow more troubled than I like. “Some day he’s going to wonder where he belongs.”

“He belongs with us,” I say, matter-of-factly. “Kayes, Ashby… those are definitions made by other men who never knew you. We’re building our own family. Our own legacy. One where this child will have three fathers, and he’ll know each and every one.”

I know what I’m saying sounds like a fantasy, out of reach, but in my heart, I believe it. I believe Wicker can be a good father. He just needs to believe it himself.

“I think…” he starts, then stops. To my surprise, he looks at it—my belly—and slowly lifts a hand, resting his palm right therein the middle. Something complicated passes over his features. It’s not quite a frown, and even less of a grimace, but it still makes my heart sink.

He looks solost.

Pulling back, he clears his throat. “I think I just need a little time to adjust to it all.” And then a rough, “Sorry I can’t be as into it as them.”

I’m the one who frowns then, using my own palm to chase the fading heat of his on my belly. “You don’t need to be sorry, Wick.”

The sad fact is that Wicker has been forced to be with many women, but this is the first time it’s created something. And though I mean the words, it still sits heavily in my chest, because the two of us have this in common. For a while there, this baby had been a wound for me, too. Painful, festering. The product of abuse. Evidence of hurt.

I can’t heal Wicker. Neither can his brothers or our son.

But maybe I can give him a place to start.

“That one, too,”I say, pointing to the large portrait on the landing of the stairs.