Alphas christmas heir, p.18
Alpha's Christmas Heir, page 18
It’s a lot.
But it doesn’t feel crowded.
It feels... full.
Caleb moves through it all like a silent satellite. He refills my water without asking, adjusts pillows behind my back, intercepts well-meaning hands when I start to flag. When I shift in the nest with a wince, he’s suddenly there, offering his hand, his shoulder, whatever I need.
He never hovers. He never takes the baby without asking. He never assumes.
He just... takes care.
At one point, Nora leans against the doorframe, Noel asleep against her shoulder, and clears her throat.
“Since we’re all here,” she says, “you’ll probably hear anyway, so I might as well say it out loud. Cole left town.”
My whole body tenses. Caleb’s scent spikes, then steadies.
“Left?” I echo.
She nods. “Storm broke enough a couple hours ago for state troopers to do a sweep. His rental’s gone. We confirmed with the motel; checked out, headed back to the city. But not before he got a nice little packet from me and the DA.”
Caleb’s mouth twitches.
“You served him?” I ask.
“Cease-and-desist,” she says. “Plus a notice of Noel’s legal status and your Alpha of Record designation. Any further attempt to approach you or him now ticks about three different statutes. Pack law doesn’t trump that without making a very loud noise.”
Relief hits me so hard my vision wavers for a second.
“He can still try,” I say, because I’ve lived with that kind of stubborn pride.
“He can,” Nora agrees. “But he’ll know what he’s walking into. And he won’t be able to pretend it’s just a simple pack matter anymore. It’ll be public. And if there’s one thing Greyson Hale hates, it’s bad press.”
She says his name like it tastes bad.
I exhale slowly, the knot in my chest loosening another notch.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Don’t thank me,” she says. “Thank the paperwork fairy.” She jerks her head toward Mara’s empty chair. “And this idiot.” She nods at Caleb. “Who went full lawyer on the statutes.”
“I did not,” he protests.
“He highlighted,” she says. “In three colors.”
“Is that a crime?” he asks.
“It is now,” she says.
Ruthie cackles.
For a while, I just let it wash over me—the banter, the warmth, the way people naturally fall into roles around the baby. Mae, knitting another ridiculous hat in the corner. Evan assembling the rocker with an intensity usually reserved for tax forms. Ruthie rearranging my fridge like it personally offended her.
Found family, my brain supplies.
My heart agrees.
Eventually, they filter out.
Mae kisses my cheek and whispers, “We’re right next door if you need anything.” Evan hugs me carefully and murmurs, “You did good, kid.” Ruthie leaves with a threat to come back in the morning with waffles. Nora presses a kiss to Noel’s hat, calls him “punk,” and disappears in a swirl of cold air and duty.
The apartment quiets.
The storm has slowed to a steady, almost peaceful fall outside. The sky is a uniform pale grey. The streetlights flicker on as dusk creeps in, casting a soft orange glow on the snow.
Inside, it’s just us again.
Noel is asleep in the bassinet near the bed, swaddled like a burrito, hat slightly askew. His tiny chest rises and falls in quick, steady breaths. Every now and then he makes a soft sound—half-sigh, half-squeak—as if commenting on a dream only he can see.
I lie on my back on top of the covers, one hand hanging over the edge of the mattress so I can feel the bassinet’s leg, just in case my brain needs the reassurance that he’s there.
Caleb lies beside me, also on top of the blankets, in soft clothes, one arm folded under his head. Our shoulders touch along the length of the bed. The contact is casual, stupidly intimate.
The only light comes from the string of fairy lights and the faint blue from the snow through the window.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
“Hey,” he echoes.
“Thank you,” I say.
He turns his head on the pillow to look at me. In the low light, his eyes look very green.
“For what this time?” he asks. “I’m losing track.”
“For... all of it,” I say. “For catching him. For staying. For... signing onto our lives without... without hesitating or making it about you.”
His expression softens.
“There was never a world where I wouldn’t,” he says simply. “When Mara explained the Alpha of Record thing the first time, months ago, I knew. It was just a question of whether you’d ever want me in that line.”
“I did,” I say. “I just had to... believe I wasn’t handing you a weapon.”
He flinches, just a little, but he doesn’t look away.
“I get that,” he says. “I wish I didn’t. I wish you’d never had to think about it at all. But I’d rather you sign my name with your eyes wide open than because someone told you it was your only shot at safety.”
“I read every line,” I say. “Mara probably wanted to throttle me.”
“She loves that,” he says. “She pretends to be annoyed, but she’s a nerd for informed consent.”
I smile, then let it fade.
“Do you ever think about... the years?” I ask, staring up at the ceiling. “The ones we lost.”
He goes quiet for a second.
“All the time,” he says finally. “Too much, probably. I play the ‘what if’ game more than is healthy. What if I’d stayed. What if I’d called. What if I’d gotten over myself sooner and come to find you before Greyson did.”
“Would you have?” I ask, turning my head toward him.
He’s already looking at me. His face in the fairy light is all shadows and soft lines.
“I thought about it,” he says. “A lot. But every time I picked up my phone, I froze. I’d hung so much of my identity on the idea that leaving you was noble, that I was protecting you, that I—” He breaks off, shakes his head. “I was a coward, Liam. Not the kind that runs from danger. The kind that runs from the possibility of becoming danger. I thought distance would keep you safe from me. So I kept choosing it. Even when everything in me wanted to drive to the city and drag you back to the creek and beg you to let me try again.”
My throat tightens.
“If you’d shown up then,” I say quietly, “I would’ve gone with you.”
“I know,” he says, and the regret in his voice is a raw thing. “That’s part of what scared me. How much power we had over each other. I didn’t trust myself with it.”
“And now?” I ask. “Do you?”
He considers that for a moment.
“More,” he says. “Because I’m not pretending I don’t have it. Power. Authority. The ability to hurt you. I’m not hiding from it or pretending it’s noble to disappear. I’m looking it in the face and saying, ‘Okay. This is dangerous. So how do we use it to keep people safe instead?’ That’s what being sheriff is. It’s what being an alpha should be. Not ‘I know best, obey me,’ but ‘I can reach the things that might crush you; let me hold them up while you get past.’”
My eyes sting.
“And with me?” I push, voice soft. “With us?”
He takes a slow breath.
“With you,” he says, “it means I don’t make decisions for you and call it protection. I don’t code my fear as your weakness. I offer. I ask. I promise. And I back off when you say no. That’s the job. That’s... the love, if you’ll have it.”
The word hangs between us. Love.
I already said it once, in the middle of a contraction, half-screaming, half-praying. It’s different now, in the quiet.
“I never stopped,” I remind him. “Loving you.”
His breath catches.
“Say it again,” he murmurs. “Please. When you’re not actively telling my arm you can feel bone.”
I laugh, a wet sound. “You’re ridiculous,” I say. Then, softer: “I never stopped loving you.”
His eyes close for a moment, like the words are something he has to physically absorb.
“Me either,” he says.
Silence, for a heartbeat. Two. Our shoulders press together, the heat between us a small, steady flame.
“How did it feel,” I ask, “holding me again? At the creek. On the roof. In the nest.”
His mouth curves, small and private.
“Like gravity remembered how it’s supposed to work,” he says. “Like I’d been... tilted for ten years and someone finally set the world back on its axis. Predictable. Terrifying. Perfect.”
I swallow hard.
“Show-off,” I murmur.
“You asked,” he says.
“True,” I concede.
I turn onto my side very slowly, careful of my sore muscles, so I’m facing him. He rolls to mirror me, propping his head on his hand. Our faces are inches apart, breaths mixing.
His scent washes over me, strong and warm—vanilla smoke and spruce sugar, twined with the faint, new note of Noel and the deeper, settled base of our nest.
My heart hammers, not with fear this time, but with something hot and hopeful and so bright it almost hurts.
I reach out, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt near his collarbone.
“Will you kiss me?” I ask.
My voice comes out smaller than I intend, and bolder too. A strange combination.
He inhales sharply.
“Liam,” he says, like he’s tasting my name.
Then he catches himself, eyes searching my face, expression going serious.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “You’re exhausted. You just—”
“I know what I just did,” I say. “The baby is asleep. My body hurts but not... there. And I want you. Not... everything. Not yet. But... this.”
His eyes darken. His scent deepens, rich and sweet, a low purr under my skin.
“Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Then, yeah. I’ll kiss you. I’ll always kiss you when you ask.”
He leans in slowly, giving me every chance to change my mind. I don’t.
When his mouth finally meets mine, it’s like the first sip of hot cocoa after coming in from the snow—warm, sweet, a little overwhelming in its relief.
The kiss starts soft. A press of lips, a shared breath. I sigh into it, my fingers fisting tighter in his shirt. His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, palm broad and gentle, fingers threading into my hair.
Our scents slam together, thick and heady, filling the space between us. Vanilla and spruce, rice and kumquat. The room feels smaller, closer, like the nest has expanded to wrap around us too.
He kisses me like I’m something precious and breakable that he’s been dying to taste again but is afraid to press too hard on. Slow, careful, asking with each brush of his mouth, Is this okay? Is this okay?
It is.
I make a small, impatient sound and inch closer, closing the last gap between our bodies. My chest bumps his; our legs tangle. My sore muscles protest, but the warmth of his body, the steady solidness of him, blurs the edges of the ache.
He groans quietly into my mouth, the sound sliding down my spine in a hot, shivery line.
His hand leaves the back of my head and skims down, fingers tracing the line of my jaw, the column of my throat, the edge of my shoulder. He pauses there, thumb stroking over the curve of bone, like he’s reacquainting himself with topography he’s dreamed about for a decade.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs against my lips, breath hot. “Any second. You just say stop.”
“Stop talking,” I whisper back, and tug him closer.
He laughs into the kiss, low and delighted, and then we’re not being cautious anymore.
The kiss deepens, heat sliding in under the softness. His mouth parts, tongue brushing my lower lip, and I meet him there, tasting him properly—coffee and sugar and something that’s just him. My hand slides up his chest, over the warm plane of his chest, the beat of his heart thudding under my palm. His muscles jump under my touch.
His other arm wraps around my waist, broad hand splaying over the small of my back through the thin cotton of the t-shirt. He doesn’t pull, exactly. He just... holds, a firm, unyielding line that says, I’ve got you, you’re safe here, come closer if you want.
I do.
I shift, rolling carefully so I’m half over him, one leg sliding between his. The movement pulls at sore muscles; I hiss softly. He stiffens, hands instantly loosening.
“Too much?” he asks, pulling back just enough that our noses brush instead of our mouths.
“No,” I say, breathing hard. “Just... new. Different. I’m okay. I’ll tell you if I’m not.”
His gaze searches mine, making sure. Then he nods, relaxing a fraction.
“Okay,” he says. “Then come here.”
He meets me halfway when I lean in again.
We kiss like we’re making up for a decade of missed chances. Not frantic, exactly. Just... thorough. Exploring. Mapping.
His hands roam my back, broad palms sliding up my spine, down again, settling at my waist. Every pass sends little sparks dancing across my skin. He never dips below where the shirt ends, never pushes against the boundaries of cloth and exhaustion and post-birth ache. He just curves his fingers into the dip of my lower back, thumbs rubbing slow, dizzying circles there.
I drag my hand up to his neck, thumb skimming over the pulse there, feeling it jump under my touch. His scent flares when I press my lips to his jaw, then his throat, mouthing gently at the warm skin there. He makes a low sound, hips twitching barely under mine, restrained.
“Liam,” he groans. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Revenge,” I murmur against his skin. “For leaving.”
He huffs out a laugh that turns into a shaky exhale when I nip lightly at the spot where his jaw meets his neck. His hand tightens on my waist, anchoring me.
“No fair,” he says, voice rough. “You know exactly where my weak spots are.”
“Seems only fair,” I say. “You’ve been using my whole existence as yours.”
He flips us, carefully, without really thinking about it—it’s muscle memory, our bodies knowing how to move together even after all this time. Suddenly I’m on my back, cushioned by the nest, and he’s braced over me, weight held mostly on his forearms so he doesn’t crush me.
“Okay?” he asks again, hovering.
I slide my hands up his sides, over his ribs, feeling the muscles flex under my palms.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Better than okay.”
He kisses me again, deeper, his body lowering just enough that I can feel the steady heat of him along mine. His scent pours over me, thick and dizzying. Mine rises to meet it, bright and sweet. The air around us feels charged, humming.
We move together in small, careful shifts, chasing more contact, more friction, more of that dizzy, floating feeling that makes the rest of the world fall away. Soft gasps slip out of me as his mouth finds the corner of my jaw, the line of my throat, the hollow of my collarbone. He lingers at each spot, lips and teeth and tongue a slow, worshipful path.
I tangle my fingers in his hair, dragging him back up to my mouth when I can’t stand the distance anymore. He comes willingly, kisses growing messier, a little breathless.
At some point, Noel makes a soft, complaining noise from the bassinet.
We both freeze.
Caleb pulls back, panting lightly, forehead resting against mine, eyes closed.
“Ignore him,” I whisper, half-joking.
“You say that now,” he murmurs. “Until you decide my priorities are skewed and revoke my Alpha-of-Record status.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. It feels good, even with the ache in my muscles.
“Go check,” I sigh, nudging his shoulder. “Before he writes you up himself.”
He presses one more quick, lingering kiss to my mouth, then peels himself away with obvious reluctance.
He crosses the short distance to the bassinet and leans over, his broad shoulders curving protectively. His voice drops into a softer register I’ve never heard him use with anyone else.
“Hey, little man,” he murmurs. “You okay? Just making sure we’re paying attention?”
Noel wiggles, lets out a tiny grunt, then sighs and settles again when Caleb rests a gentle hand near his head.
“Drama queen,” Caleb whispers fondly, then glances back at me.
The look on his face takes my breath away.
It’s everything at once—desire, yes, still banked and hot in the set of his mouth, the flush on his cheekbones—but also awe, tenderness, a bone-deep contentment I’ve never seen in him.
He comes back to the bed and slides in beside me again, this time pulling me into his side so my head rests on his chest. His arm curls around my shoulders, hand splayed over my upper arm.
“Hey,” I say into his shirt.
“Hey,” he answers, pressing his lips to the top of my head.
“I signed your name,” I remind him, voice going sleepy now that the adrenaline has burned out. “On a government form.”
“I saw,” he says. His chest rumbles under my cheek. “I’m framing the carbon copy. Nora says that’s tacky. I say it’s documentation.”
“You’d better back it up, Hart,” I mumble. “It’s a privilege. Not a right.”
He tightens his arm around me, just a little.
“I know,” he says. “I will. Every day.”
Our scents wrap around each other and settle, the sharp edges of the day easing into a warm, steady hum. Noel sighs again in his sleep, a soft little exhale that sounds like the punctuation at the end of a long, terrifying sentence.
I let my eyes drift closed, the ache in my body dulling in the circle of Caleb’s arm, the knowledge of Noel’s presence a steady weight in the corner of my awareness.
We lie like that, breathing together, letting the heat of earlier simmer between us, not gone, just banked for later. There will be time for more—more kisses, more touches, more nights where our bodies and hearts sync up without a newborn’s squeaks to interrupt.
