Chapter 11: First Meetings

LORA

I will need three shots of espresso and a mild sedative to get through the next part of my life, which involves scheduling playdates with werewolf royalty.

God, when did my life become a supernatural soap opera?

"He wants to meet Alex this weekend," I told Maya over the phone while stress-eating my way through a bag of chocolate chip cookies. "At my apartment. Because that's how custody arrangements work for the werewolves."

I could hear Maya pause whatever she was doing—probably organizing another one of her legendary parties. "Girl, you're about to let the corporate boogeyman into your living room to meet his secret werewolf son. Do you realize how insane that sounds?"

“I know.” I shove another cookie in my mouth. “I know. But unless I suddenly learn law at a god-level speed, there’s no way around it. Their attorneys basically said, ‘resistance was futile.’”

“I hate this,” she says. “I hate not being there.”

“You and me both.”

“I’ll visit next month.”

“I’m holding you to that.” I hang up. My hands are sticky with chocolate, and my heart thumped loud enough like it was going to fall off my chest.

*****

Saturday morning arrived too quickly than expected. I'd cleaned my apartment until it sparkled, hidden anything that might suggest I wasn't a perfect mother, and given Alex the most basic explanation possible.

The moving boxes from Portland were finally unpacked—my few belongings looking sparse in the space, but at least it felt more like home now that I'd be working with Marrock Industries.

"A friend of Mommy's is coming to visit," I'd told Alex over breakfast. "Someone who... who might be very important to you. Be a good boy, okay.”

Alex just nodded seriously, golden eyes—those damn golden eyes that should have been my first clue, studying my face like he could read all my panic. Sometimes, I swear that kid sees straight to my soul.

The doorbell rang at exactly 2 PM because, of course, Erin Marrock would be punctual. Rich guys probably get their punctuality surgically installed.

I opened the door, and there he was. Six feet four inches of expensive suit and barely contained danger, holding a funny-looking gift bag that he probably bought to impress Alex.

"Lora." His voice was deeper than I remembered. Rougher.

“Erin,” I say. “He’s in the living room.”

He walks in. His eyes are everywhere. The chipped table. The laundry I meant to fold, but decided to leave it out of laziness. The drawings on the wall that scream toddler.

Then—Alex.

Sitting on the floor. Surrounded by blocks.

He looks up.

And then he stares.

Not scared. Not curious. Just... locked in.

“You have the same eyes as me,” Alex says. “Are you my daddy?”

"I..." Erin's voice cracked. "Yes. I believe I am." Alex nodded solemnly, like this made perfect sense. "Mommy said you might be important. Are you important?" A laugh escaped Erin, rough and surprised.

"Some people think so."

"Do you live in a castle? Important people live in castles."e

“Something like that.”

I want to say something to interrupt, but the conversation keeps unfolding like they’ve done this before in some other life.

Alex steps closer. Sniffs. Seriously—sniffs him.

“You smell like trees. And rain. And wolves. But not scary wolves. Safe wolves.”

I nearly drop the coffee pot I’m gripping.

“You’ve got a strong nose,” Erin says. He kneels. Kneels. In his suit. In my apartment.

“I like your smell,” Alex says. “It feels like dreaming but awake.”

“That’s a good thing,” Erin murmurs. “Right?”

Alex nods. Then shrugs. Then walks away like this isn’t a life-altering moment.

I clear my throat. Loudly. “Why don’t you show him the tower you built?”

But Alex’s already doing it. He’s dragging Erin to the floor. Explaining blocks and hero logic.

And Erin? He’s listening. Like every word is precious. Like Alex is telling him how to breathe.

I retreated to the kitchen to make coffee while I stared at both of them from the doorway.

They’re rebuilding the block tower. Erin is asking questions like: “What’s the foundation?” and “How do you reinforce the base?” Like he’s interviewing a small architect.

He laughs. Not loud. But real. Like it bubbles out before he can check it.

Then he looks at me.

Our eyes lock.

It’s a stare that drops me backward into memories I buried under four jobs and one terrifying birth. Sheets tangled. Voices breaking. His hands hot on my stomach, and my mouth chanting his name like an answered prayer.

“Daddy, watch!” Alex stacks something impossible, and it falls over. He laughs. It’s full and honest. It breaks the moment clean in two. Soon, they started debating vegetables. Super vegetables.

“Super broccoli,” Alex insists.

“The most heroic of all greens,” Erin agrees solemnly.

I want to cry and laugh and scream and run, all at the same time.

This wasn’t supposed to work out this smoothly. ugh!

But Alex—he’s already calling him Daddy. Like he’s been waiting. Like he always knew.

When Erin stands to leave, Alex clings to him. His little arms loop around one leg.

“Will you be staying for grilled cheese?”

“I wish I could.”

Erin’s eyes flicker with a deep emotion.

I walk him to the door while Alex stays behind, messing with the toy wolf from the gift bag.

“That went... better than expected,” I say.

"He's incredible," Erin said quietly. "He's..."

"He's three years old," I finished. "Don't forget that when you're making your grand plans for his future."

"I won't." His voice was steady, but his eyes were still burning with that fierce protective fire. "But Lora... those attorneys weren't wrong about the dangers. About what could happen to him."

"I know." The admission hurt. "I know he's not safe. Not anymore."

We stood there in my doorway, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us.

One night of carelessness, three years of separation, and a child who'd just bridged the gap between us without even trying.

"I should go," Erin said finally.

"Yeah."

But he didn't move. Neither did I.

"Lora..." he started, then stopped. Shook his head. "I'll call you. About arrangements."

"Okay."

He was halfway down the hall when I heard him mutter something under his breath. Something that sounded like: "No one will touch you. Not even your mother. Not if she keeps you from me."

The words hit me in all the wrong places.

I instinctively slammed the door shut, while resting against it, my heart pounding wildly as a terrifying realization sank in: this wasn't a normal custody matter; there is more to it.