Page 11

Chapter 11

Zane

I can’t sleep.

Nothing new there. It’s my life. Always has been.

This has been my reality for two years now—ever since the accident—when my life nearly slipped away for good.

Night after night, I stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks as if they hold the answers to my restless mind. That’s why I prefer working the night-shift. Only then does the darkness wrap around me like a comforting blanket and not mock me like it does when I’m in my bed.

It’s bizarre, but it’s when I’m working, when I can almost forget the haunting memories of flames devouring walls, the acrid smoke that filled my lungs, and suffocating me until I thought I would never breathe again.

Those memories only fade when I’m focused on keeping others safe, when I can shift my attention away from my own fears and channel it into something that matters—into saving lives. In those moments, I find a sense of purpose, and it gives me a brief reprieve from the scars that leave me the constant memory of that night.

But I haven’t been working nights this past week.

I push out of my bed.

My feet carrying me through our empty house. A big empty house with three alphas, no omega, or babies. Just hollow spaces all around, where love should be.

Thorne’s room is empty, probably at that damn club again. Miller’s light glows under his door, the workaholic reviewing patient files.

I pause at the window, press my forehead against the cool glass and watch the ocean lap at the shore.

Somewhere across the city, Freya’s rocking Stone to sleep.

I’ve watched her, following at a distance when she takes him to the hospital or to the park. Watching her smile as she talks to him. Watching her red hair catching the sunlight, as she bounces her baby, and smiling when she laughs at something her friend Harlow says.

I know Harlow is her friend, and she has a high-profile ice hockey pack.

I’ve used my contacts to find out everything about Freya and who she knows, even the parents who never ever mention their daughter, despite who they are.

But despite how much I know about her, I can’t get over the way she held Stone during those first moments, like he was her entire world. I want that . I want to be a part of it. Part of her life and Stone’s. But the scars on my neck, my chest, my body always stop me.

“You should sleep,” Thorne says behind me.

I don’t turn. “I thought you were out at that club.”

“I haven’t been to the club for nearly a year.” He steps beside me. “I don’t know why. I think work is getting to me.”

“I’ve seen her again.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “Freya. With the baby.”

Thorne sighs. “She’s not your responsibility, Zane. Just because you helped with the birth doesn’t make her or the baby yours.”

If only he could see her like I do. Someone real. Someone who makes the world brighter just by existing. Someone who made me forget about my scars, even if just for one perfect moment when she smiled as she touched my neck despite her being in deep pain.

She tried to soothe me without even realizing.

But Thorne’s already walking away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the endless night ahead.

I shouldn’t be here.

I promised myself to not do this again. Yet, the pull to see her and Stone again was irresistible.

This old apartment block needs some serious renovations. The elevator is out of commission, and the doors are so old and flimsy that breaking in is laughably but scarily too easy.

As I step inside, the scent of her floats around her apartment and presses on me with an almost suffocating weight. But it’s changed. She’s masking it again.

I growl, annoyed at that. Though it certainly doesn’t stop me as I wander through the now familiar space.

I know where I need to avoid the creaks beneath my feet. I’ve done this a few times now. Each step leads me to the same place—her bedroom.

I gently nudge the door open, and a soft whimper pierces the stillness, a forewarning that Stone is on the verge of waking.

I move quietly, careful not to disturb Freya, who needs her rest.

Deep down, I know I shouldn’t be here. That I should slip away before the baby fully awakens and fills the air with cries, but my feet carry me toward the sound before I can second-guess myself.

Just like last night—and the nights before.

Peering into the crib, I find Stone’s tiny face scrunched up in frustration, his little fists flailing in the air just before he cries. “Hey there, son,” I whisper, my heart swelling with warmth as I lean in and reach into the crib, plucking him out with the gentlest of hands.

I rest him against my chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his tiny body as I stare at Freya sleeping peacefully in her nest.

She’s beautiful, even in sleep. Her hair spills across the pillow like a halo. Her eyelashes flutter. I sneak away after I glance at the soft curves of her body that my fingers itch to touch.

It’s so silent—obviously she is asleep—but there’s something about her chatter that I find soothing. I can still hear her laughter echoing, punctuated by her silly sayings that light up the room.

I glance to the side of her, seeing a bottle of pills. I creep there and pick it up. My heart is pounding with concern. Is she okay? A wave of anxiety washes over me, and there’s an ache in my chest, like hands are squeezing my lungs, tightening with each passing moment.

Stone frets in my arms, a soft whimper escaping his lips. “Shh, let mommy sleep,” I whisper, cradling him closer. I just hope she has enough expressed milk in the fridge to feed him.

I take the pills and head to the door, slipping out of the room.

I sway him gently as I make my way to the kitchen, inhaling his sweet baby scent. It envelops my senses, grounding me and making everything feel right, as if he is mine.

When I open the fridge door, the sudden light is harsh in the darkness, momentarily blinding me. I squint and spot three bottles of milk nestled on the top shelf. I grab one, quickly shoving it into the milk warmer, just as I did last night.

When the light shifts to green, I reach for the bottle and sink into the comforting embrace of the armchair in the living area, its fabric soft against my skin.

“There you go, Stone,” I murmur, offering him the bottle. To my relief, he latches on with gusto, his tiny mouth working eagerly.

As he feeds, I take a moment to glance at the bottle of pills I took from Freya’s table; the label catching my eye.

Scent inhibitors. My heart feels like it’s a huge load settling in my chest.

They are not blockers, but still she is hiding again, retreating into herself. I thought her smell was different today.

Does that mean she doesn’t like my scent? The thought gnaws at me, a bitter aftertaste I can’t shake.

“Good boy,” I whisper when Stone finishes his bottle and I settle him over my shoulder. Stone lets out a healthy burp, his face scrunching up in that adorable way that makes my heart swell. “That’s my son.”

The words slip from my lips before I can stop them, but there’s something about saying it that feels right. Natural. Even if I have no claim to him or Freya beyond that one intense night in the delivery room.

I check the bottle. Empty. “I need a few more burps from you before you sleep again.”

Stone’s eyes are drooping as I sit him on my thighs and I hold his small chest against my large hand, gently patting and circling his back in a rhythmic motion.

He releases another burp; my nose twitches as his sweet baby scent mingles with traces of Freya’s scent.

I cradle Stone against my chest, his tiny fingers curling against my shirt. Rising from the chair, I pace the living room, studying the frames on the side table.

“Look at her, son. That’s your grandmother.” I pick up a silver frame showing an elegant woman in diamonds accepting some kind of award show. A younger girl stands beside her, poised and perfect. “And your aunt. They look nothing like your mom, do they?”

Stone burps in response, milk dribbling down his chin. I wipe it with the burp cloth I took which was next to his crib.

“Your mom’s different from them, isn’t she? All bright colors and laughter.” I shift Stone to my shoulder, patting his back gently. “Are you the black sheep of the family, Freya? Is that why they’re not here helping you?”

The questions hang in the darkness when I see a picture of Freya with her friend Harlow. “At least she has a good friend.”

Stone gurgles and squirms against my neck, his tiny breaths warm against my scars. For once, I don’t flinch at the contact.

“I’ll help you,” I whisper to myself as I rock from side to side to help Stone drift back to sleep.

I pad silently through the apartment and lay Stone back in his crib, tucking a soft blanket around him. For a moment, I just watch him and then her as a warm feeling fills my chest.

Her hair is still fanned around her head on the pillow, and she looks serene, beautiful. Nothing like the chaotic person she seems when she is awake.

But will Miller and Thorne like you?

Something in me aches.

Back in the living room, I take the scent inhibitors to the kitchen, ready to pour them down the sink. I tell myself she doesn’t need them. She needs to be who she is born to be. An omega. Yet the traitorous part of me knows I’m no better.

I can’t make that decision for her, not when I’m sick of people trying to decide for me.

I sigh as I grab the photograph album I saw earlier and sink back into the oversized armchair; the cushions enveloping me, and I feel better than when I’m in my bed at home.

I flick to the first page of the worn photo album that lies heavy in my lap. Another turn reveals another glimpse into Freya’s past.

There she is. This time she is a little older and has blonde hair. That surprises me. What does shock me is she’s always lingering in the background.

Her sister, a shorter blonde, stands front and center in every shot, their mother’s hand resting on her shoulder. The contrast between them is stark. Like one sister is basking in the spotlight, while the other perpetually sneaks into the shadows.

It seems absurd considering Freya’s personality.

“So, this is your family,” I murmur, tracing a finger over the glossy surface. In another photo, two boys flank Freya in several photos, their protective stances speaking volumes. Her brothers, probably alphas, I realize, wondering where they’ve disappeared to when their sister needs them most.

If she’s not next to her brothers, she’s usually positioned next to one of her fathers in these memories.

“Yet nobody is here for you.” My fingers brush against a soft throw blanket draped over the chair’s arm. Blindly, I pull it over my body, and its warmth seeps into my bones.

I inhale the fragrance. Freya’s scent still clings to the fabric. Her true scent—it’s faint but present—and probably from before she started taking those damn inhibitors.

I know sleep won’t come—it never does. But I can be close to her here. There is something about this space that feels right in a way my home never has.

And as the blanket settles around me like a cocoon, I take in a deep breath of her scent, letting the tension in my shoulders ease as I close my eyes and the tranquility of her apartment wrap around me.