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1334 Words
I couldn’t wait any longer.
The anonymous note sat like a live wire in my pocket for two days—paternity test or exposure. I didn’t tell Amelia. She was already fraying at the edges: fielding calls from panicked clients, dodging paparazzi who’d started camping outside the guest house gates, trying to keep the triplets from seeing the headlines on her phone. Every time I looked at her, I saw the weight she carried alone for seven years. Because of me.
I needed proof. Not for them—for me. So I could stop guessing and start protecting.
I arranged it discreetly. A private lab outside the city, no names attached. I collected cheek swabs from the kids during what looked like a casual game—pretending to check for “hockey mouthguards” while they laughed and let me swipe the inside of their cheeks. Amelia was in the shower; she never suspected. I sent my own sample the same way. Results in forty-eight hours.
They came at three in the morning via encrypted email. I opened it alone in the main house study, heart slamming against my ribs.
99.999% probability of paternity.
Jaden. Jasmine. Jamin.
Mine.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred. Joy hit first—sharp, blinding, like sunlight after years underground. My children. My blood. The wolf inside howled in triumph, possessive and fierce. Then guilt crashed in right behind it, heavy enough to buckle my knees. Seven years. They’d grown up without me. Without stories at night, without someone to catch them when they fell off bikes, without a father who’d kill for them. Because I’d been too scared, too proud, too stupid to fight for their mother.
I sat on the floor with my back against the desk, head in my hands, and let it all wash over me. Overjoyed. Guilty. Terrified I’d ruin this before I even started.
When the sun came up, I found Amelia in the kitchen, making oatmeal for the kids. She looked exhausted—dark circles, hair in a loose braid, still beautiful enough to steal my breath.
I stepped close. “We need to talk. Alone.”
She searched my face, then nodded. We walked out to the rose garden, away from the house.
I didn’t waste words.
“I know they’re mine.”
Her face went white. “How—”
“I ran the test. Discreetly. I had to know.”
She wrapped her arms around herself like armor. “You had no right.”
“I had every right,” I said quietly. “They’re my kids too. And I’ve missed everything.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “You think I wanted to keep them from you? You told me it was a mistake. You let them humiliate me. I was nineteen, pregnant, alone. I did what I had to.”
“I know.” My voice cracked. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right. But I want to be their dad. Not in headlines. Not in court. Quietly. Co-parenting. Whatever you’ll allow. I won’t push. I won’t take them. I just… want in.”
She stared at me for a long time. Rain from last night still clung to the roses; droplets fell between us like tears.
“I need time,” she whispered finally.
“Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
She nodded once, wiped her eyes, and walked back inside.
That night was the annual Hudson charity gala—same ballroom, same glittering crowd, same ghosts. Markus had started it; now it was mine to carry. I wore the tux like armor. Amelia wore a deep emerald gown that hugged her curves and made my mouth go dry. She’d agreed to come—for appearances, for the project, for Markus’s memory.
We avoided each other most of the evening. Polite nods across the room. Small talk with donors. But the mate bond didn’t care about distance. It pulled tighter with every glance.
The orchestra started a slow waltz. I crossed the floor before I could talk myself out of it.
“Dance with me,” I said, offering my hand.
She hesitated. Then placed her fingers in mine.
We moved to the center. The music wrapped around us. Her body fit against mine like it always had—perfect, inevitable. My hand settled at the small of her back; hers rested on my shoulder. We swayed, barely breathing.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured against her ear. “For every second I wasted.”
She shivered. “I know.”
The bond surged—hot, electric, undeniable. Her scent flooded me: vanilla, rain, arousal. My wolf growled low, possessive. I felt her pulse race under my thumb.
I steered us toward the side door, down a quiet hallway, into one of the old estate rooms—a small sitting parlor no one used anymore. I locked the door behind us.
She turned to me, eyes dark. “Chase—”
I kissed her.
No hesitation this time. Raw. Hungry. Years of longing poured into it. She kissed back just as hard, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. I backed her against the wall, hands roaming—down her sides, cupping her hips, lifting her so her legs wrapped around my waist.
Clothes came off in a frenzy. Her gown pooled at her feet; my jacket hit the floor. I tore at my shirt, buttons scattering. Her bra followed. My mouth found her breasts—sucking, teasing, worshiping. She arched, moaning my name, nails digging into my shoulders.
I carried her to the velvet chaise by the window, moonlight spilling across her skin. She lay back, legs parting, eyes locked on mine. I knelt between them, kissing down her stomach, tasting her through the thin lace of her panties before ripping them aside. My tongue found her c**t, circling slow, then faster. She bucked, crying out, fingers in my hair. I slid two fingers inside her—wet, tight, perfect. She clenched around me, trembling.
“Chase—please—”
I rose, shedding the rest of my clothes. My c**k throbbed, hard and leaking. I positioned myself at her entrance, pausing.
“Tell me you want this,” I rasped.
“I want you,” she breathed. “All of you.”
I thrust in—slow at first, letting her adjust, then deeper. She gasped, nails raking my back. We moved together—hard, desperate, claiming. The bond flared brighter with every stroke, souls tangling. My knot swelled at the base, pressing against her entrance. She whimpered, pushing back, taking more.
“Mine,” I growled against her neck.
“Yours,” she whispered, voice breaking.
I thrust harder, knot catching, locking us together. Ecstasy exploded—her c****x milking me, pulling my release in hot pulses deep inside her. The bond snapped fully open—emotions flooding: love, regret, forgiveness, need. We clung to each other, shaking, tears mixing on her cheeks.
We stayed tied like that for long minutes, breathing together, hearts pounding in sync. Redemption didn’t feel like absolution. It felt like coming home.
Later, as we dressed in silence, my phone buzzed.
I glanced at the screen. Breaking news alert.
“Hudson Heir’s Steamy Reunion—Amelia Clark Back in His Bed?”
Photos—grainy, taken from outside the estate. Us in the garden weeks ago. Us dancing tonight. A blurred shot through the parlor window—enough to suggest, not confirm.
My stomach dropped.
Before I could speak, another alert: legal filing.
Lucy Clark suing Amelia for undue influence on Markus’s will. Claiming coercion. Demanding the shares be voided.
Amelia’s face went pale when I showed her.
“They’re not stopping,” she whispered.
I pulled her close, knot still faintly throbbing with aftershocks.
“They can try,” I said, voice hard. “But they’re not taking my family. Not again.”
- Writer
