Kylie

For all the women out there who didn’t already know, it’s revelation time! Everything anyone’s told you about pregnancy is an outright lie.

I couldn’t get the advice from my most recent doctor’s appointment, out of my head. It was like one of those annoying Justin Bieber songs. You don't want to like it, but can't stop thinking about it. I kept repeating the words, and for whatever reason, always did it using the same placating “doctor knows best” voice. “You're only four months along, Kylie, don't worry so much. You’ve hit the second trimester, so it’ll be smooth sailing for at least another two to three months. Relax and enjoy the break. After that, well,” he chuckled, and I remember wanting to kick him in the nuts. “That's when the baby will really start to sap your energy.”

I hustled toward the arena, looking ridiculous. Gasping for breath, I sucked in air as if the short distance from the car to the door were a marathon instead of across a parking lot. Stupid male doctor. He didn’t know what the heck he was talking about… smooth sailing. What a joke! A man does not, and never will, have a single freaking clue what it feels like to be pregnant.

Ugh! My chest ached and with each inhale, the cold air felt like a billion knives in my lungs. Luckily, the staff entrance was in sight, less than fifty yards away. I had no problem getting in. Not only did I know all of the guards by name, I was also the proud owner of my very own official laminated Comets badge, which I kept tucked safely in my pocket. Most family members didn’t get one, only staff. Per his usual MO, Rocco went above and beyond with his helicoptering, and threw a massive hissy fit until Comets’ management folded and gave him whatever he wanted, probably to make him shut up and go away.

Just a little further and I’d be inside, out of the below freezing temperatures. My lungs were on fire from both the exertion and bitter cold. I was seriously regretting having slacked off on cardio in the last few weeks in favor of moping.

Daniel, the guard on duty, saw me coming and smiled. I opened my mouth to say hello but animated voices caught my attention. Glancing to my right I saw the outline of two people having an intense exchange of words. Hands made sweeping gestures and the volume of their voices steadily rose. None of my business. I turned toward Daniel and the beckoning warmth, when the man just about shouted. I stopped so abruptly, my foot slipped on a patch of ice and I almost landed face first on the pavement.

“Miss Calloway?” Daniel asked. He reached for me, brow furrowed in concern.

“Shhh.” I flapped a hand so he would be quiet. I wanted hear what the couple was saying, or more specifically, I needed to hear one of them, because I recognized the voice. When it came to everything Sebastien St. Clair, my response was on par with that of Pavlov's dogs. Seb sent my hormones—and my ability to make smart decisions—spinning out of control. I pressed a hand to my midsection and swallowed.

The only reason I was at the arena was to find Seb and tell him about the pregnancy, but hearing his voice, knowing he was close by, made my resolve falter and my stomach queasy. It felt like my internal organs fell into a blender set to liquefy. I tried to identify who was with Seb, but it was dark and they were several rows away.

Dan said my name again and, without tearing my gaze from the couple, I told him, “I'll be right back.”

Seb spoke and the sound made my heart flap wildly. It knocked against my ribs, determined to break free of its cage and fly away. Despite driving to the arena with every intention of coming face to face with Seb, hoping to catch him after the game, in hindsight I should have chosen a different venue. Someplace other than where Seb—and Rocco—worked to break the news that in a few short months, like it or not, Seb would be a father.

But I didn’t. I didn’t call or text him first, either, even though the topic would be better handled in private, with advance notice Seb’s place would have been marginally less idiotic, though I knew exactly what would happen the second the door closed behind us. We'd end up naked and sweaty and no words, other than “yes, oh god, more,” would be exchanged. As much as I wanted that—like really, really wanted that—it was time. Seb deserved to know about the baby and that Rocco, a man he despised like no other and vice versa, was my brother.

As I walked toward the couple, the person with Seb spoke, and froze. My feet turned into blocks of lead, too heavy to lift. I couldn't see who was with Seb, but her voice was unmistakably female. Shaking off the concrete shoes, I took a few more steps. I wanted to hear what they said.

Too little, too late.

As I inched within earshot, conversation wrapped up. I watched horrorstruck, as they slid their arms around each other and embraced. I gasped, the sudden pain in my heart so sharp I struggled to breathe. I knew I shouldn’t watch, yet continued to stare, in spite of the nightmares that would likely plague me for weeks on end. They interacted with a familiarity typically shared by lovers. Whoever she was, he knew her intimately.

I shivered and wrapped my arms around my waist, blinking back hot tears. I thought my situation couldn't get any worse, what with expecting an unplanned baby with a man my brother hoped would drop dead. Turns out I had no idea what I was talking about, because what happened next sliced me open from stem to stern. Seb reached out and the hands he used to worship my body cupped the woman's face. He leaned down and pressed his lips, which once mapped out every one of my erogenous zones, against the woman’s in a gentle kiss. Even in the darkness, I could see it was quick and perfunctory, like a kiss you gave a family member, but my battered heart felt the impact all the same.

The ground heaved beneath my feet and I held back a surge of nausea. I shouldn’t be here.

Humiliated, I backpedaled. Of course—because, why not?—I tripped over my feet and stumbled. Dan asked if I was okay. I ignored him. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t speak if I wanted to, which I didn’t. An enormous lump clogged my throat and the thick band around my chest pulled several notches tighter.

One careful step at a time, I backed up until I stood under one of the tall halogen lights. The sudden brightness dilated my eyes, ruining my night vision so I could no longer see the couple. A sob choked me, but I swallowed it back. I didn’t want to break down where Seb, and his lady friend, could witness my destruction. After two or three raspy inhales, I collected my proverbial shit and swiped at my damp cheeks, which proved futile. As quickly as I dashed the tears away, more sprung up to take their place. I heard Dan’s footsteps and, not wanting him to catch me crying lest he report was he saw back to Rocco, I spun and fled to the protective bubble of my car. Adrenaline pumped through my veins and my entire body started to tremble. Throw an unplanned pregnancy on top of the flaming heap, and my mental state went into a free-fall.

Between the shuddering, full-body sobs, and endless stream of tears, I have no idea how I managed to drive home without crashing. Engine off, I sat in my car and glanced at Rocco's empty spot. Prayer isn’t really my thing, but I closed my eyes sent up a quick thank you to whoever saw fit to give me a brief reprieve before I had to deal with Rocco, though he would be home any minute.

Listless and depressed, I didn’t want to move. Maybe if I cried hard enough, I’d pass out. Then when I woke the nightmare would end and my life would be normal again, sans unattainable men and the stupid desire for danger and cheap thrills. It was Rocco, and the thought of him finding his pregnant sister a snotty, weeping mess in her car, that got my ass moving. I dragged my carcass to the elevator, rode it to the correct floor, unlocked the deadbolt, trudged down the hall to my room, and shed my clothes, and it only took seven minutes. I ended my unsuccessful excursion under my rainfall showerhead, hoping the loud pounding of water would drown out the pitiful cries that tore from my chest. I got three whole minutes of solitude before Rocco knocked on the bathroom door.

So much for taking a little time to process what happened.

“Kylie? I thought you said you weren’t going to be here when I got home.”

I did say that, because I thought I’d be with Seb.

Crap, crap, crap.

I rinsed the soap from my face before answering. “Plans fell through.” I cringed. My voice sounded like I gargled with straight up gravel. I closed my eyes and prayed for the second time that night.

Please don’t let Rocco have heard that.

“Okay.”

I tracked Rocco's heavy footfalls as they exited my bedroom. Once I was sure he was gone, I let out the breath I had been holding. What had my life had come to? Hiding in the shower for a few minutes of privacy? I needed to find my own apartment, because thought of Rocco hearing me sob sent a bolt of fear down my spine. Rocco hated to see me cry. It made him beyond upset and he always overreacted.

I wiped the water out of my eyes and glanced down at the small swell of my belly. No moving out for me any time soon. Not with a baby on the way and no one to help. That depressing little nugget brought on a fresh wave of despair. I wanted to hate Seb, but I couldn’t. Besides, I had no one to blame but myself. I accepted his invitation to meet in the hotel bar, knowing exactly who he was and his reputation with women. I chased the high of being with a man like Seb. The thrill that came from sneaking around behind Rocco’s back.

I was such a mess, I cried until my fingers pruned and thick steam filled the shower stall. Then I turned off the water and towel dried. I sighed. Rocco would be waiting for me. I pulled on some comfy sweats, braided my damp hair and let it hang down my back, and went looking for Rocco before he came looking for me. Easy enough. I opened the bathroom door to find him sitting on my bed, handsome face creased with stress, mouth distorted into a frown.

I took a deep breath and plastered on what had to be the fakest smile ever.

“Umm, hey.”

How lame. If Rocco didn't think something was wrong before, he definitely did after that.

Right on cue, Rocco’s dark brows knitted, and the familiar wrinkle above his nose made its first of what would likely be many appearances of the evening.

“Sit,” he demanded as he pointed at the bed. “We need to talk.”

“Can we maybe do this tomorrow?” I made my way into the walk-in closet. “I’m exhausted.”

After dumping my dirty clothes in the laundry basket, I whirled around, completely unprepared to find my brother practically up my ass. I ended up face to chest with a wall of muscle and squealed in surprise. Rocco stood just inside the closet, all huge and menacing with his big body towering over me and blocking the only exit.

Rocco’s harsh expression faltered and he deflated a bit. Then he let out a long sigh, one that made me want to roll my eyes so hard they’d get stuck up inside my head.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Tomorrow. But I mean it, Ky, no backing out.” Rocco thrust a finger at me. “Get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.”

Without waiting for me to respond, Rocco stomped off like a caveman, lumbering out of my bedroom, footsteps loud as he disappeared down the hall. Well, at least one good thing came out of Rocco's pissy attitude. With our impending “talk” hanging over my head, I was so good and wound up I managed to spend least ten whole minutes not obsessing over Seb.

Tomorrow, I had to tell Rocco about Seb. A blot of fear shot through me. Rocco really would kill Seb. I was in a lose-lose situation, stuck between a rock and two prehistoric-minded, testosterone-fueled, hockey players.

By the time I finished sobbing under the duvet, feeling pathetic and sorry for myself, I had squeezed out every last tear I could possibly produce and then some. Despite the fear, despite seeing Seb with another woman and chickening out, despite how Rocco was going to react, I knew what I had to do. A round of confessions and brutal honesty, for Rocco, Seb, and myself.

Eventually, pregnancy exhaustion took over and I fell asleep, not that I got any rest. I tossed and turned all night, images of Seb and his mystery woman haunting my dreams.

Seb

Fuck. My. Life.

I drained the last of the whisky from the tumbler and slammed the glass on the countertop. Everything was so fucked up. Kylie—my Kylie—is that bastard Calloway's sister. Hot Blonde is related to Sasquatch. I barked a sarcastic laugh and shook my head. God has one hell of a sick sense of humor.

A quarter of the bottle of single malt was gone. I had a decent enough buzz going to find the fact somewhat hilarious. How the fuck did an asshat like Rocco Calloway end up the brother of such a stunning, kind woman? It boggled the mind. Then again, look at my piece of shit sperm donor of a father, the undisputed King of all asshats. Dear old Dad made Calloway look like Mother Theresa. My gaze flicked to the whisky and I frowned. Mon père loved to drown himself in alcohol. So much so, it permeated from his pores all hours of the day. I tensed at the similarities and clenched my fingers as I fought with my conscience.

Did needing a drink to process the shitstorm mean I was turning into my father? No one would blame me for getting blitzed considering what I’d found out.

I returned my gaze to the bottle and sneered at it. Knowing I might be more like my old man than I wanted to believe pissed me off. My lips curled back from my teeth and I snarled.

I am not my father!

Anger, shame, humiliation, and a shocking amount of self-loathing erupted to the surface. I whipped out an arm, snatched the bottle and glass, and threw them both at the sink on the other side of the kitchen. The glass exploded and the shards went flying. Whiskey splattered on the floor, the counters, and across the front of my shirt. Alternating between fury and despair, I slid down the cabinets until my ass hit the ground.

The outburst helped clear the fog of alcohol. I pinched the bridge of my nose to lessen the pounding headache that hammered inside my head. It didn't help.

Twitch, twitch, twitch.

Christ on a bike! Motherfucking eye. Frustrated, I slammed my head against the cabinet. Lucky for me, it’s mandatory that hockey players have skulls made of titanium, or it probably would've hurt.

Kylie was pregnant with my kid and I had to wonder, if I hadn't snatched Calloway's phone, would I have gone my entire life without knowing I had a son or daughter? I leapt to my feet and began to pace. Hands laced behind my head, I went back and forth, retracing my steps as I struggled to process how fucked up everything was.

A thought hit me and I stopped dead in my tracks. My jaw unhinged and my hands fell to my sides. Holy fuck. All this time, Kylie… she knew who I was. No way did she not know about the animosity between me and her asshole brother. Kylie knew when Calloway or me figured out what was going down, it would turn into a complete shitshow, and she screwed around with me regardless.

That was it. Decision made, I went to grab a shower and get some sleep. I needed a clear head for tomorrow, when I had what would likely be the most important conversation of my life.

Kylie

It was late morning by the time I rolled out of bed. Pleasantly numb inside, I calmly and methodically showered, brushed my teeth, got dressed, and even put on makeup. The panic didn’t hit until I left the safety of my room, then I had to force my feet to take me down the hall. I sniffed at the air and my stomach growled. Food.

“Here.” Rocco pulled out a chair when I stepped into the kitchen. A bowl of soup sat on the table, silverware, a napkin, and a glass of water at its side. “You sit and eat,” he ordered. “When you're done, you and I are going to have a little chat.”

My stomach did a somersault. I was pretty sure I knew exactly what kind of chat Rocco wanted to have. One with him hurling a ton of questions at my aching head. Questions I had, so far, refused to answer. The thought should have made me nauseous enough to put me off breakfast, but I was out of the dreadful, pukey, first trimester, and food was no longer something to avoid. It was necessary, to the point I ate all the time. I even started to crave strange combinations with sriracha sauce. I put it on everything, including a glazed donut once—don’t be a hater, it was amazing. I polished off the pile of eggs and bacon in record time, and did it without sriracha.

It wasn’t until I sat back in my chair that I realized I should have drawn out the meal to avoid “the talk.” Rocco drilled holes in the side of my head, his way of letting me know not only was he done waiting, but “the talk” was happening right then and there and would be downright unpleasant.

I glanced up. Just as I thought, Rocco was indeed glaring, gaze steady and determined. Despite the shower sweat dripped down my back. He relaxed his tense expression—even though it was too late. I knew Rocco wanted to preach hellfire and brimstone—he folded his hands on the table and took a deep breath.

“Who is the father, Kylie?” Before I could answer, the bastard lifted a hand and gave me the face-palm, the face-palm! and continued. “And don't give me that song and dance bullshit about you being afraid to tell me because I'm going to beat up whoever it is that stuck his dick in my baby sister.” His jaw ticked, and I snorted.

Yeah right, he so would.

Rocco gave me a withering look and I hunched down in my chair. Naturally, the nausea I thought would come earlier chose that moment to make its appearance, after I filled my stomach to the brim. In retrospect, I was glad I skipped the sriracha. Nothing was worse than fiery sriracha reflux.

“Kylie,” Rocco persisted, trying—and failing—to keep his tone from sounding threatening. He laced our fingers and those stupid pregnancy tears flooded my eyes. “You need to tell me who it is, Ky. I promise I won't be mad. You're having a baby. Not only is it not fair to you because, at the very least, this disgusting asshole should pay for his kid, but it's not fair to him to not know he's going to be a father. It’s also not fair to the baby to not give the other parent a chance to be in his or her life.”

My lips trembled and tears poured down my cheeks. Rocco can say he won’t be angry, promise he won’t attack the father, but the second I Seb’s name leaves my lips, Rocco would lose his ever-loving mind. Any scraps of sanity he possessed would burn to ash and disappear faster than my dignity.

It took me a bit to calm down enough to speak. When I finally did, my voice was choked up. I was truly scared to tell him. “Y-you’re going to be s-so m-mad at me.”

The feet of Rocco’s chair scraped on the floor as he turned to face me. He reached out and clasped both of my hands and brought them to his chest. “You're family, Ky. I love you. Just tell me who it is. Whatever happens, we can work it out.”

“I—”

The doorbell rang, followed immediately by loud pounding that rattled the front door. I exhaled.

Saved by the bell. Literally.

Perma-scowl in place, Rocco pushed to his feet and huffed. “I’ll be right back.”

I nodded. While Rocco answered the door, I took the opportunity to duck into the nearby half-bath to attempt to clean up and blow my nose. Naturally, because everything in my life seemed to turn to shit lately, I was splashing water on my face when the shouting began.

Towel partially blocking my vision as I dried my face, I hurried toward the commotion. There was a loud crash followed by a dull thud that sounded suspiciously like a body hitting the floor. I dropped the towel and sprinted for the foyer. The sight that greeted me was so shocking, when I skidded to a stop I slipped on the hardwoods. My arms pinwheeled to keep my balance and my fingers scrabbled for purchase. By sheer luck I grabbed hold of a bookcase and kept from wiping out. Barely.

The teeny, tiny amount of energy I expended to get to the foyer in no way accounted for the galloping of my heart. No, that was entirely the fault of Sebastien St. Clair, in the flesh, standing in my home. Scratch the standing part. Seb was on the floor, his limbs sprawled every which way. Blood gushed from a split lip and one of Seb’s eyes was well on its way to swelling shut. Rocco towered over Seb like an avenging angel, arm pulled back, fist balled up, about to land another blow.

“Rocco, no!” Without thinking, I ran and slid between Rocco and the father of my child. Jerk or not, I didn’t want Seb to get hurt. A ham-sized fist flew at my head. Fortunately, Rocco had time to pull his punch. He snarled and gnashed his teeth.

“Kylie, get out of my goddamn way.”

I shivered. Rocco sounded so cruel my pulse skittered. I steeled my nerves and held my ground.

“No.” I hid my trembling hands behind my back.

“Kylie,” Seb said from the floor behind me. “Don’t put yourself in danger. Especially not in your… uh, condition.”

I whipped around to face Seb, whose eyes immediately landed on my midsection. My face and neck burned with shame. I crossed my arms to cover the tiny baby bump and sniffed back a sob.

“What?” I croaked.

“Fuck you, St. Clair!” Rocco bellowed so loud I startled, yet I couldn't tear my gaze from Seb. “She's not the one in danger. I would never hurt my sister! Not like you, you sick son of a bitch!”

The tension grew so thick, I could taste it on my tongue. Rocco was a lit stick of dynamite, fuse shrinking, time to detonation counting down.

Seb growled and used the back of his hand to wipe the blood from his lip, which only served to smear it around. He climbed to his feet and flicked his bright blue eyes over my shoulder to stare daggers at Rocco.

“Fuck you, Sasquatch.” Seb’s lips curled back. Blood filled his mouth, and his sneer looked positively gruesome. “I would never fucking hurt her.”

“You already did, you motherfucker! I'm going to kill you for screwing my sister and leaving her like this.” Rocco let out a dark laugh that sent chills down my arms. I turned to my brother. He was literally shaking with rage. “I should've fucking known it was you, St. Clair. You’re the only one I know who would do anything to get under my skin, even sinking so low as to pull my sister into your twisted mind-fuck games.”

There was a fraction of a second’s warning when Rocco’s muscles tensed, then he lunged. Caught in the middle, I cried out. The rest went down so fast everything blurred together. Seb grabbed my arm and shoved me behind his body. That precious moment he used to get me out of the way cost him dearly. I regained my bearings just in time to see Rocco's huge fist connect with Seb's jaw. Seb’s head snapped back forefully.

“Rocco! Stop.” I tried to get between the two men. They glowered at each other, nostrils flaring like two bulls ready to charge. Seb threw out an arm to block me.

“Kylie, don’t. I’m not going to let you get hurt. Enfant de chienne. If this trou de cul,” Seb growled what I thought were insults in French as he gestured at Rocco, who responded by raising his fists. Rocco’s knuckles were bruised and bloodied. “If he would stop acting like un Néandertal for two fucking seconds so I can explain, instead of attacking me.”

Rocco's gaze went black and, for the first time in my life, I was afraid of my brother. He looked positively murderous.

“It doesn't matter what you have to say, St. Clair. I'm still going to beat the living shit out of you. You'll be lucky if you can walk out of here when I'm done, because I have every intention of breaking both of your legs.” Rocco’s deliberate and chilling delivery didn’t shore up my confidence that he wouldn’t do exactly that.

The amount of testosterone that swirled in the air grew thick so I almost gagged. Their macho posturing and tendency to resolve things with savagery had me stressed out beyond belief. It was overwhelming. I wouldn't stand there and watch my brother, who I loved, fight Seb, who I also loved. Plus, I was furious. With Rocco for acting like I was some frail maiden whose virtue required defending, and with Seb for being kissing that woman in the parking lot. Add in the yelling, the blood, and my whacked-out pregnancy hormones, and I was done. Finished. They could kill each other for all I cared, I just knew I had to get out of there, as far as possible from their hyper-masculine fog. Of course, it was the dead of winter and I wasn't currently wearing shoes or a coat. My initial plan of storming out the front door wouldn’t work. I turned to my only other available option and took off down the hall, locked myself in my room, flung myself on the bed, and burst into tears. Mature, I know, but like I said… pregnancy hormones.

Over my hitched sobs I heard raised voices as the men continued to go back and forth. Idiots. At least there were no sounds of fists landing on bodies or grunts of blows absorbed. The shouts grew louder and louder until I realized those morons were headed for my bedroom, still arguing. I wanted to scream into my pillow. I wasn’t fragile, but I was in no shape to deal with two stubborn alpha males as they butt heads and fought over me like rabid dogs over a lamb shank.

I flipped to my back and winced. My whole body ached, the exhaustion so all-consuming even my toes hurt. Right outside the bedroom door, their squabbling increased in volume and a scuffle broke out. Someone or something slammed into the door hard enough to make the frame shake. More yelling, more scuffling, more thumping against the door, and I snapped. I had reached my limit with them and their tendency to resort to playground rules to resolve their issues. The shroud of misery and despair receded like the outgoing tide, replaced by a tsunami of white-hot anger.

Molars grinding, I launched off the bed and stomped over to the door. My timing couldn't have been worse. I twisted the lock and flung open the door as Rocco threw Sebastien against it. Instead of coming in contact with the slab of wood as expected, Seb met empty space where the door used to be. His eyes bugged out and his arms whirled as he soared through the air and crash-landed in a heap on my bedroom floor. I gaped at Seb. He was bloodied and bruised, but his arms and legs appeared functional.

Yes, I was still mad at him for being an ass, but seeing him injured while Rocco—who sported several scrapes and bruises of his own—seethed and his enormous body filled the doorway, the object of my fury changed. Rocco better batten down the hatches. He was about to be on the receiving end of Hurricane Kylie.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” I shouted as I got in Rocco’s face. Rocco jerked back, surprised by my outburst, and his enraged expression faltered for a brief moment before the furious scowl returned.

“I’m showing fuck-nuts here what happens when you disrespect my sister.” Rocco pointed at Seb.

A demon must've possessed me or something, because size differential be damned. I slapped my palms against Rocco's massive pecs and gave him a mighty shove. Okay, so he didn't budge, but I like to think I got my point across. Rocco looked at me as if he had no idea who I was.

That made two of us.

“It's none of your damn business what Seb did or didn't do to me, with me, or for me!” Without laying a finger on him, Rocco staggered back as if I ninja-kicked him in the gonads. His mouth opened, but I didn’t want to hear whatever bullshit was about to spew forth. “No,” I said as I slashed my hand through the air. “You’re not a part of this.” I gestured between Seb—who sat on the floor, as stunned as Rocco—and myself. “If the two of us have something we need to resolve, it won't include you.” I had steadily pushed on his chest, maneuvering Rocco into the hall without him noticing.

“He only did this to you to get back at me, Ky. Can't you see that?”

“Fuck you, Calloway!” Seb shouted from my room. “I didn't even know who she was until I saw your phone last night, you fucking Yeti.”

I twisted around and glared at Seb, who looked appropriately chagrined. He slammed his mouth shut so hard his teeth clacked. Satisfied Seb would behave while I took care of my brother, I turned back to Rocco.

“Whatever he did or didn't do,” I continued, “is between the two of us. Now, I get that you don't respect him, and that’s your choice. You don't have to. But so help me Rocco, you will damn well respect me. That means leaving us alone while we talk.”

Stubborn as always, Rocco started to open his pie hole, again. My response was to slam the door in his stupid face and twist the lock. The doorknob rattled and Rocco thumped on the door. My hackles were so high they could probably see them from the International Space Station.

“If you don't go away right now, Rocco, I swear on our parents’ grave I will pack my shit and leave.”

Those were the magic words that took the wind right out of my brother’s sails. I knew I won. “Fine,” Rocco growled through the slab of wood. “But you yell if you need me and I’ll be right here.”

Once he left, I exhaled and thumped my forehead against the door.

“So, umm, do you have anything I can use to clean up?”

I yelped and spun around, clutching my chest. I was so busy fighting with Rocco I forgot about Seb. Put one more mark in the “things pregnancy does to you” column. It was the only excuse I had, because something was wrong with me. If I weren’t pregnant, nothing could ever make me forget about Sebastien St. Clair.

Seb pointed at his bloody lip. Oops. Right, he asked to clean up.

“Oh, um, yeah. Hold on.”

Flustered, I dashed into the bathroom and ran a washcloth under the faucet, careful to avoid peeking at the mirror. I knew how I must look, after all the crying and shouting and mentally draining caveman crap. I would bet week-old roadkill was easier on the eyes. I squeezed out the washcloth and took a deep breath.

“Thanks.”

Seb took the washcloth and wiped his face, getting most of the blood off. The rest smeared until it looked like he lost the battle with a tube of MAC Russian Red lipstick. I knew I lost my mind when a completely inappropriate giggle burst out. Seb frowned and his brows squinched over his gorgeous blue eyes, which made me laugh harder. The adorable, puzzled look on Seb’s face set off a fit of hysterics, one that likely left him wondering if I was entirely sane.

“Sorry,” I wheezed between giggles. “I don't know what's wrong with me.”

Seb, having his own moment of acting completely unlike himself, took my elbow and gently led me to sit on the bed. “Are you okay?” he asked as he sat so close our thighs touched.

God. I missed him so much. Being so near, the physical contact, him acting all concerned—the switch on my emotions flipped yet again and my laughter morphed into hitched sobs. I was so damn sick of crying, but couldn't stop. When Seb wrapped a comforting arm around my shoulders and dropped a kiss on the top of my head, holding me while I wept, I lost it.

“I-I’m s-sorry I didn't t-tell you.” Snot and tears soaked into Seb's shirt as I clung to it, the material fisted in my hands. “I-I didn't know w-what to say.”

Seb gently pried my fingers apart, then gathered my hands in his and kissed my knuckles, one at a time, the endeavor so sweet my breath caught. Pulse racing, I stared at Seb, and a bevy of emotions bubbled up and over. I didn't know what to do or think.

“I know we need to talk,” Seb said carefully. “About a lot of things.” His breath caressed the back of my hand and his gaze dropped to my midsection. I felt him tense at the visual reminder of his impending fatherhood.

We had to talk about the baby, and I knew that. I just didn’t want the rare, tender moment to end. Didn’t want to argue, see Seb’s gaze turn cold, or watch him stalk out of my room. He had to be furious that I kept a secret he should have been in on.

“But now isn’t the time.” The lines around Seb’s eyes relaxed a fraction, as did his rigid posture. “You look exhausted, and you're upset. No need to add to the stress.” He let go of my hands to squeeze my knee. “We’ll talk later. After you've gotten some rest.”

Seb went to stand and a burst of adrenaline sent me into a panic. I scrabbled for a hold and caught the hem of his shirt. I held it in a death grip, as I vibrated with the very real fear Seb might walk out of my bedroom and decide he never wanted to see again.

“Don't leave!”

With me clinging to his clothes, Seb sat back on the bed. He turned to look at me, his forehead creased with indecision. I watched Seb shuffle through a half-dozen emotions. Should he run? Stay? Talk? Shout? Cry? Pull out all his hair? As I stared into his eyes, I noticed one of them twitched. The tiny muscles spasmed every second or two, over and over.

“Please, don’t go,” I begged, officially shedding my last bit of pride. “We don't have to talk. I… Will you…” My heart thundered, nearly drowning out my voice. “Will you stay?” Seb glanced at the door. It didn’t take a genius to guess why he hesitated. “Rocco knows better than to bother us,” I explained. “I don't make false threats, and he knows it. The last thing Rocco wants is for me to move out. He'll be good.”

Of that, I was confident. Hey, at least I was confident about something, because lord knows I had no flipping idea what I was doing when it came to Seb or anything else in my messed up life.

In a tender gesture, Seb reached out and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. I melted under the heat of his stare. Not heat, warmth. Like he cared. And in his own way, he had to. Seb wouldn’t put up with Rocco’s crap to get to me, wouldn’t bleed for me, if he didn't care.

In the hopes I could persuade Seb not to go, I pulled up my feet and lay back. “Please. Will you lay down with me?”

I swallowed and patted the spot next to me. Seb squirmed and his eye continued to twitch. Then, decision made, he toed off his shoes and joined me on the bed. After positioning his tall body next to me, he grabbed me by the waist and proceeded to push and pull and maneuver me how he wanted, until he was spooning me from behind. Seb’s long fingers fanned out across my hip, fingertips pressing into the flesh. The possessive gesture put a lump in my throat.

“I know we have to talk about the baby,” he whispered, his breath on the back of my neck. Goose bumps pricked my skin and I shivered. “And we will. Later. Turn off your brain and get some sleep. I can practically hear the gears spinning.”

I huffed out a laugh and closed my eyes, surprised to find I was able to relax, even with the odds that Rocco was lurking on the other side of my bedroom door somewhere around eighty-twenty. He could go pound sand for all I cared. I was warm and safe and happy.

As I drifted off, a smile tugged at my lips. When it came to Seb, I still had my doubts, but they no longer seemed all that important.

Sleep came almost instantly.

Seb

Kylie's breathing grew slow and even, and I felt the anxiety leech from her body with every rise and fall of her chest. I was glad she was getting some sleep, because I wasn’t. No way was I going to close my eyes. I’d run for president of the Justin Bieber fan club before I let my guard down with Rocco Calloway skulking around nearby. Bastard probably had his ear pressed against the door. If I had any idea Kylie lived with him… her, ugh, brother, I wouldn't have come.

Fuck it. That was a lie.

Even if I knew about Calloway, I wouldn’t have done anything different. Except maybe been prepared for Sasquatch to attack me the second he answered the door. Sucker punched me right in the damn mouth.

My blood pressure rose. I clenched my jaw and shoved Calloway out of my head. I didn’t want to think about him. Instead, I propped an elbow so I could watch Kylie sleep, a first for me, mostly because I was gone the second I busted my nut. I would have made an exception for Kylie, but she took off before sleeping arrangements were discussed.

I blinked away the gut-clenching memory and soaked in everything Kylie. She looked even more breathtaking in her sleep, her features relaxed, body pliant, and those thick lips slightly parted. More beautiful than at that idiotic team dinner, the one I’d been arm twisted into attending. The fact that in her sleep, she outshone the ball-tingling, backless black dress she wore that night, spoke volumes as to how stunning Kylie truly was. I studied the thick fan of dark lashes splayed across her cheek and the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose.

My mind was blown. It wasn’t possible that the angelic vision in my arms came from the same gene pool as the growling six-and-a-half-foot Yeti who lived to antagonize me at any and every given opportunity.

Based on the shadows under Kylie’s eyes, she needed to sleep, but I couldn’t stop from reaching out to lightly skim my fingers down her bare arm. Chill bumps pricked and I smiled. I waited for the chance to see her again, and had no intention of wasting the opportunity. I raked my greedy gaze up and down her body, intent on studying each and every square inch, to memorize every detail.

My leisurely, somewhat erotic, inspection came to a screeching halt when I reached her waist. I sucked in a sharp breath and slowly slid my hand toward the small but noticeable bump. My fingers flexed. For whatever reason, I had to touch it. To make sure it was real and not some fucked up dream I pulled out of my ass. My hand trembled, hovering an inch or so above it. The temperature in the room rose and my skin grew clammy. I swallowed.

As much as I wanted to pretend none of it was happening, I couldn’t deny the truth. It literally stared me in the face. Under that subtle swell was a baby. An actual human being, growing as my hand hung in midair. My nerves unraveled faster than Colorado's first line defense whenever the puck crossed the blue line. I yanked my hand away and used it to swipe at the sweat beaded on my upper lip. Reality sank in and I started to freak out.

Careful not to disturb Kylie, I scooted off the bed and paced the room. Negative thoughts pelted my head like a sleet storm in Québec.

I scrubbed my hands down my face. I shouldn’t be there. I didn’t know anything about babies or parenting. The kid would end up just like me, FUBAR. I read that shit’s genetic or something. Christ. My mother died of alcoholism and a broken heart. After she was gone, every night Dad drank enough to tranquilize a fucking rhinoceros.

I tugged at the collar of my shirt. When did it get so fucking stifling in here? I gagged, suffocating on the thick heat, and sprinted for the door, focused on getting the hell out of there so I could breathe. Anything to release the pressure that clamped down on my lungs and stop my legs from giving out.

Hand wrapped around the doorknob, I glanced over my shoulder and gave Kylie one last, longing, look. A pang of despair hit as I took in her peaceful form. It felt like I was tearing apart, my soul ripping in half. Just thinking about Kylie made me bat shit crazy. Made the need to be near her or with her or anywhere in her general vicinity almost unbearable.

To willingly leave when I finally had her within reach? Virtually impossible.

The only thing to keep me from climbing back into bed and handcuffing her to me, was knowing she was way better off without me in her life. If I had anything to say about it, my kid wouldn’t be subjected to a childhood like mine—barely existing, in a constant state of fear, inundated with pain that never completely disappeared, regularly cornered and beaten like an animal until he snapped and was forced to take a life, all before puberty.

Scarcely a man and capable of committing an act of unimaginable violence.

No one wanted their child raised by a murderer, and that’s what I am. A murderer.

Kylie deserved better. Her kid deserved better. I closed my eyes, ignored the motherfucking twitch, twitch, twitch, and snuck out, leaving my heart behind.

The hall was creepy quiet. I tipped my head to listen. Nothing. I glanced around, convinced Calloway lay in wait, ready to pounce and finish what he started. Bring it on. Whatever Sasquatch dished out, I most certainly deserved. I thought of it as penance for ruining Kylie’s life. Hell, I welcomed the pain. Anything was better than the wrenching agony in my chest that left a hole in my cold, black heart.

I worked my jaw back and forth and winced. Calloway had landed a direct hit and it hurt like a bitch. I palpated the swollen area. A blinding streak of pain exploded behind my eye. Jesus. I couldn’t deny the man knew how to fight. It hurt like a bitch. It was enough to stop me from turning around, going to Kylie, waking her up, and vowing never to let her out of my sight.

Every light was off except a low wattage bulb above the stove. Did Sasquatch go to bed? He went to sleep with me, in his home, unsupervised, and in bed with his sister? I shook my head and hissed at the way my face throbbed. Slipping out the front door was so easy, I was disappointed Calloway wasn’t hiding, waiting for another shot. I wouldn't have even fought back. The guy might be a massive touchhole, but he deserved his pound of flesh. Fuck, if anyone shat all over Rémy the way I did Kylie, I'd probably end up in jail for murder. Real jail, not juvie.

Down in the parking garage, I fired up the Raptor and made my way to street level. The four hundred and fifty horsepower engine snarled. Feeling rather masochistic I pulled into traffic without looking. Horns blared and breaks squealed in my wake. I didn’t look back. My driving bordered on aggressive on a good day. After the night I had, my vision blurred with what I refused to admit were tears. I shouldn’t have been behind the wheel considering my mood verged on suicidal.

I had never felt so vulnerable. I didn’t break. Not when my father’s fists rained down on me, or when his ancient, steel-toed boots collided with my ribs, or when Rémy called in the middle of an episode and I was the only one who could talk him down.

I was the strong one. I was the one who took care of the people… or person in my life. I protected Rémy. Shielded him from the very worst, frequently lying to spare him the gruesome truth. How did I end up weak and defeated, wishing Rémy would call so I had someone to lean on, yet at the same time glad he didn’t, the need to protect him so deeply ingrained I didn’t want to dump my problems on him.

I drove in a fugue-state back to my place, unable to remember how I ended up parked in my assigned spot in the garage. I rode the elevator to my floor. Once the front door was locked behind me, I headed directly for the kitchen. I took in the wreckage of broken glass in and around the sink and caught the strong scent of whiskey in the air. A reminder I lost my temper. Snapped because I refused to believe I was in any way like my father, despite the mountain of evidence to the contrary.

I huffed out a somber laugh. What a fucking joke. I was more like him than I ever wanted to admit. A frequently drunk, exceptionally angry, and violent asshole who used and discarded anyone who dared to get too close, not giving a shit how much I hurt them as long as I got what I needed. And let’s not forget, when fucking or fighting wasn’t an option to calm the thrashing storm inside my head, I burned through whiskey like water.

Not like him, my ass. I was him. I was just too hung up on my own bullshit to realize it.

I tried to remain calm so I wouldn’t fall back into Dad’s habits and do a repeat of the night before. But fuck, I would kill for a drink. Twitch, twitch, twitch… I breathed in slowly through my nose and out through my mouth, counting up from one as I cleared my mind. I stood in my kitchen, breathing and counting until my fighting stance relaxed and my eye’s Riverdance performance came to an end.

Determination, raw and pure—reminiscent of how I threw myself into hockey as a kid, used it as a way to get out of that shitty house I grew up in—surged. If I didn’t want to become my Dad, a miserable, drunk, piece of shit, something had to change. I had to change. I crouched in front of the sink, opened the cabinet, fished out gloves and a sponge, and got to work.

Sebastien St. Clair, a.k.a. The Sinner, wasn’t good enough for Kylie Calloway. It was time to clean up my act. Prove I was worthy of her love. Until then, I would stay away, but I wouldn’t forget. I would wait until the moment was right.

Then? Game on. I take what was rightfully mine. My woman, my child, my family.

I checked the time and groaned. An unpleasant reminder morning skate began in a few hours. Ugh. The last thing I needed was a hot-headed Sasquatch up in my face. But if I had to make nice with that fuckstick Calloway took to deserve Kylie’s love, I’d do it.

That didn’t mean I had to like it.