Page 214 of Seizing Control: Part One

LILY

“Where do you want the crib set up?” Wyatt asks, hefting the box in from the garage.

“In my bedroom,” I tell him as I survey the kitchen and dining areas. Everywhere I look, there’s a mess. A half-assembled bassinet. The folding change table. Bottles, various shaped teats, and formula cans on the sink. The brand-new steriliser bubbles away as it finishes up another load. Juggling Garrett in one arm, I point to the carton that contains the matching change station. “Can you take this with you as well? It needs to be assembled, please.”

In less than two days, I’ve managed to cajole everyone into ignoring Slash’s order. Together, we’ve united to make space for Garrett to live. To turn this house officially into a home... which is ironically funny when I consider Slash’s comment before he left.

A flurry of activity, starting with my move from the room I shared with my husband back into my old bedroom. I’ve downsized my shoe collection, given half my handbags to Nadia, and made as much space as I can for all the things Garrett requires. Crystal has been a Godsend, immediately compiling a list of things we need and giving me a crash course in motherhood. As always, Nadia is my rock, her nursing skills coming in handy when we floundered with feeding a properly. My brothers are steadfast, keeping their thoughts about the situation to themselves, despite their obvious disagreement with my acceptance of Slash’s progeny with a Maddison as my own.

I’d be lying if I said our early morning jaunt out to Everett’s rehabilitation centre didn’t send me momentarily spiralling from shock. My entire world was knocked off its axis, but in a good way. The truth is the moment I held Garrett, I fell in love. From the top of his strawberry-blond head to his crystalline blue eyes to his chubby little toes, I’m smitten.

He is his dad all over, and an innocent in this mess.

Garrett can’t be blamed for his parents mistakes. It’s not his fault that he’s caught between two underworld organisations that hate each other. He never asked to be born. So, I didn’t even need to read Bebe’s letter to know what had to be done, however, the desperation in her words cemented my decision.

I’m keeping him.

Slash will either come around or he won’t.

I cannot sacrifice a child to placate his pride.

The second DNA test, the one I had Hunter complete, made it clear.

Christopher Garrett Hudson is my husband’s son.

And as the birth certificate states in black and white, I, Lilianna Scarlett Hudson, née Mayberry, am his mother. I’m unsure how Bebe managed to pull off the legalities, yet everywhere we’ve thought to check so far, not one sign of her involvement with her son exists. Every indication is that I am his biological mother—a scenario that’s going to raise some eyebrows when I give birth in less than five months’ time.

The math ain’t mathing.

But it is what it is...

“I’ll ring Ev if I run into trouble with the instructions.”

I smile at Wyatt, thankful for his assistance, even as I worry that his questions might send our middle brother off the deep end. Everett’s ability to make music and craft exquisite pieces of woodwork was destroyed when he was tortured—the unspoken subtext that our father organised the attack continues to fester while my brother finally embraces physical therapy to regain some function.

The baby in my arms feels like a light at the end of the tunnel...

Always easy-going, Wyatt does his best to placate my unspoken worry. “Don’t stress, lil sis... he told me to call if I needed help.”

“Okay.” I duck out of Wyatt’s way when he tries to ruffle my hair. Against my chest, Garrett stirs. His little mouth opens and closes as he seeks his pacifier. I offer it to him, and he greedily sucks on it before settling back to sleep. Drawing my pinkie down the side of his face, I luxuriate in the softness of his skin. When my brother starts for the stairs, I tell him, “Be careful... Nads and Sander have been especially noisy today—your delicate sensibilities may be permanently damaged if you open the wrong door without knocking.”

“Blegh,” Wyatt scoffs. “I dunno what’s worse... their constant fuckin’ or the arguments.”

Our youngest brother, Nate, offers his own take on the situation. “Like, Nads is hot n’ all, but they need to wear a bell or somethin’... I’m sick’a seein’ Sander’s dick.”

Wyatt grimaces. “Yeah.”

“That’s harsh, guys.”

Chuckling at my rebuke, they disappear upstairs. I swap over the freshly washed load of laundry from the washing machine to the dryer, then start another wash. The sound of my brothers’ jeering at Sander and Nadia filters down the stairs. Shaking my head, I pull the laundry door shut and walk back to the kitchen to see what else needs doing.

As I wipe down the kitchen counter with one hand, the little man cradled against my chest, my mind starts to wander. Sander’s rekindling of his relationship with my best friend is a cause for concern. They’ve been fine for the past few weeks, but war is brewing, and they’ll soon expect us all to take sides. In the close to a decade that they’ve been playing this game, I’ve managed to avoid being pulled into their drama by putting my foot down the moment it starts.

The conversation I had with Atlas is proving prophetic.

None of us have the bandwidth to deal with them right now.

We’re all dealing with our own dramas.

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