chapter 45

THEA

I shouldn’t be this shaken.

I shouldn’t still feel him. Under my skin. Between my thighs. In the space behind my teeth where I bit back a moan I never meant to give.

But I do.

I’m not supposed to lose control. I built my entire life around control—shaping it, hoarding it, wearing it like armor so no one could see how breakable I really am. But Ezra Harrington cracked me open like a secret I didn’t want told. And worse?

I let him.

Now I’m sitting in my car outside Finn’s school, clutching the steering wheel with hands that still tremble, trying to remember who the hell I’m supposed to be.

Mother. Executive. Divorced woman with her dignity intact.

Not… whatever I was sprawled across his desk, begging for more even after he bit me like he owned me. Like I belonged to him.

The heat rises to my cheeks again—not from arousal this time, but from shame. From bone-deep mortification. My son is about to climb into this car, bright-eyed and innocent, and I’m sitting here drenched in sin and scent memory.

What kind of mother am I?

I check the mirror. My hair is mostly intact. Bite mark covered. Lipstick reapplied. There’s no visible evidence that I’ve just been defiled by my boss—my vampire boss—but I can feel it. Like an echo. Like a brand.

Ezra called me his mate.

Mate.

Not girlfriend. Not lover. Not even woman-he-lost-his-damn-mind-over. Mate. Like…

I don’t even know what that means.

What if it’s some blood magic? What if I’m bound to him now? What if this bite isn’t just sex—what if it’s the start of something I can’t undo?

What if I don’t want to undo it?

The thought slips through before I can stop it, and I press my forehead to the steering wheel, a shaky breath escaping.

No.

Absolutely not.

I make a mental note to search the web when I reach home.

A knock on the passenger seat window startles me.

Finn.

All my worries fade into nothing, my lips pull into a smile as I open the door, coming face to face with his bright eyes.

“Hi sweetie.” I chime, leaning over the console to pull him in, not minding that I'm bent awkwardly just because I'm too lazy to step out like a normal human.

“Hi mommy.” He says with a toothy grin as he shrugs off his backpack and places it on his little lap.

My fingers brush his chubby cheeks.

It feels so… surreal. To have him in my space again.

He leans into my palm like he used to when he was a toddler. Like I’m still home to him.

“How was school, bug?”

He exhales dramatically, like the weight of the world’s been on his shoulders. “I got in trouble.”

My brows shoot up. “Already? You’ve been back, what, two days?”

He shrugs, eyes wide and unbothered. “It wasn’t my fault. It was Leo’s.”

Leo is his best friend.

“Of course it was,” I murmur, biting back a smile. “What happened?”

“Well…” He draws the word out suspiciously. “He dared me to say ‘boobies’ during storytime, so I said it out loud. And then Mrs. Patel told me to sit in the hallway and think about what I did, but I wasn’t even thinking about boobies! I was thinking about snacks.”

I snort. A full, actual snort.

“Finn!” I try to sound stern, but he’s already giggling at his own story, little legs swinging.

“You’re not mad?” he asks, eyes peeking up under his lashes.

“Oh, I’m mad,” I lie, buckling him in. “Very, very mad. Infuriated, even. But also…” I lean close and whisper, “a little impressed.”

He gasps, delighted. “I knew you’d get it.”

My grin fades for just a fraction of a second.

I do get it. I get him. And that scares me because if Ezra ever becomes a part of this, even for a second, I need to be absolutely sure I’m not inviting chaos into this boy’s world.

We start driving.

From the backseat, Finn kicks off his shoes like he owns the place. “Mommy, do you have snacks?”

“I have a granola bar that tastes like cardboard.”

“Yuck.”

“Yeah.”

A pause. I hear the rustle of a wrapper.

Then, “You look happy today.” He says between mouthfuls of the same granola.

My hands tighten on the wheel.

Happy?

No, baby. I’m wrecked. I’m drowning in things I can’t explain to you. I’m ashamed, terrified, confused—but also… something else. Something stupidly close to exhilaration.

I paste on a smile as I spare him a glance from the rearview mirror. “Do I?”

“Yep. Like when you dance in the kitchen when you think I’m asleep.”

He’s watching the clouds roll by, while chewing.

I swallow. “Maybe I’m just happy you’re here.”

He giggles. “Leo said that too. Mommy, can Leo come visit us after school tomorrow?”

“Of course,” I say softly, eyes focused on the road.

And that right there—his little grin, his hopeful voice—is one of the reasons I haven’t changed his school, despite everything. Despite the way my stomach knots every time his teacher mentions Sebastian dropping by unannounced.

Because this—his friendships, his laughter—is his normal. And I won’t take that away from him.

He has roots here. People. Joy.

I know what it’s like to be yanked out of the life you know, reshaped by adult decisions that feel like punishment. I was forced to grow up too fast in the wreckage of my parents' choices. I learned to make room for guilt and silence, not playdates and crayons, covering my ears with both hands while they scream at each other, trying to understand, everytime.

I refuse to let Finn wear the weight of our failures like armor.

He deserves his childhood. All of it.

“And daddy came today again,” he says, almost too casually. “He gave me this.” He adds, bringing out a pack of gummies.

Everything stops.

I keep my eyes on the road, but my grip on the steering wheel tightens.

“Oh?” I manage.

“Yeah,” Finn hums. 

I nod, swallowing the ache crawling up my throat.

“That was… nice of him.”

“He said the dinosaur gummies are my favorite. But Mrs Patel told me to always show mommy all the gifts daddy brings me before eating.”

I slow down a little and reach behind to ruffle his hair. “That's good of you, bug. You can have it after lunch okay?”

He grins, nodding gleefully. “Thank you mommy. He also asked if we could have lunch again. Like the three of us. Like before.”

That bastard.

Like before.

There’s no such thing anymore. Before is a closed chapter. A burned bridge. A fairy tale with a bitter ending.

But how do you explain that to a child who just wants both of his parents in the same room without tension slithering under the silence?

I reach back blindly, curling my fingers around his tiny ones.

“Maybe someday, baby,” I whisper. “But not yet.” Maybe never.

Not while my wounds are still bleeding.

Not while I still smell like another man.

Not while I’m still learning how to breathe without rage in my ribs.

He squeezes back. “It’s okay. I like it when it’s just us, too.”

And just like that, he undoes me.

I blink fast, willing the tears not to fall, not while I’m driving, not while he’s watching. I don’t want him to think love makes people cry. I want him to believe it makes people whole.

But maybe I’m still figuring that out, too.