Page 36 of Monster's Secret Baby

"Don't play games, Harmony." There's a dangerous edge to his voice that wasn't there before. He steps closer, and I force myself to stand my ground. Surely, he knows? "I know when she was born. I can count."

"Congratulations on your basic arithmetic skills." The sarcasm slips out before I can stop it.

In one fluid movement, he's in front of me, close enough that I can smell him—that familiar scent of storm-clouds and woods that used to cling to my skin after our nights together. His fingers brush my cheek, and I hate how my body remembers him, leaning into his touch before my mind can stop it.

"Whose is she?" His voice drops, husky with an emotion I can't—won't—name. And now, I'm not so sure. Does he think she is his? Or does he believe there was someone after him?

I hope it's the latter. I hope he can feel even a fraction of what he made me.

"Why does it matter?" I step back, crossing my arms. "So you could use her, too? Another pretty ornament for the great Adellum Vey?"

Confusion flashes across his face, quickly replaced by something darker. "Is that what you think? That you were just?—"

"It doesn't matter," I snap. I don't want to hear his excuses. He's great with beautiful words, but the intentions behind them are all wrong.

The Harmony who first loved him—shy, soft, hopeful—doesn't know what to make of this version of him. He's sharp where he was once open, possessive where he was once patient. The playful teasing has hardened into something that cuts. But as he stands there, rolling that crystal between his fingers, I glimpse flashes of the man I knew.

"You can't just come back and expect—" I begin, but he interrupts by reaching forward, tucking a sprig of lavender behind my ear with such gentle precision that I fall silent.

"I don't expect anything, little bird." The old nickname slips out, and we both freeze. "But I'm not leaving again either."

It terrifies me, how much I still want him—this darker, sharper him—even when I know better. How my body remembers his touch, how my heart speeds up when those silver eyes lock on mine.

So I step away and head inside, keeping space between us. It's all I know how to do. I can't seem to get away from him and what's worse—a part of me doesn't want to now that he's here again.

One nightafter closing the restaurant, I move through my end-of-day ritual with the practiced ease of someone who has done it a thousand times. Brooke is already asleep upstairs, worn out from a day of mischief with Joss at the pottery studio. My fingers are pruned from washing dishes, my back aches from hours on my feet, but there's comfort in the familiar soreness.

I'm humming softly, untying my apron when I sense him before I see him. A prickling awareness that makes the fine hairs on my neck stand up.

Adellum sits at the corner table, the one tucked into the shadows where the lamp light barely reaches. His wings are folded tight against his back, making him look almost human if not for their massive outline. His head is bent over a leather-bound sketchbook, charcoal moving in swift, sure strokes across the page. The sight stops me mid-step.

I should tell him to leave. The restaurant is closed. This is my sanctuary, my hard-won peace that he has no right to invade. The words form on my tongue, sharp and ready.

But then he looks up.

Those silver eyes catch the lamplight and hold it, transforming into something molten. For a heartbeat, I'm transported back to stolen moments in Lord Arkan's gardens, where those same eyes had looked at me like I was something precious, something worthy.

My anger dissolves, leaving behind confusion and a dangerous yearning. Because this version of Adellum has always beenmine.

"I didn't mean to startle you." His voice is quiet in the empty restaurant. It's not quite soft but it's like the edge of him has been dulled just a little. "I thought you'd gone up."

I find my voice, though it comes out rougher than intended. "We're closed."

"I know." He doesn't apologize or move to leave. Instead, he glances down at his sketch, then back to me with an intensity that makes my chest tight. "The light was good."

Against my better judgment, I move closer. "Since when do you care about good light? You used to sketch in pitch darkness."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "You remember."

Of course I remember. I remember everything—how he'd paint late into the night and make love to me after, how he said I was the reason he even painted at all. Little details I've tried so desperately to forget.

I force myself to look away from his face, down to what he's drawing. The breath catches in my throat.

It's Brooke, rendered with such precision and tenderness that it almost hurts to look at. She's captured mid-laugh, her curls wild around her face, those eyes—his eyes—bright with joy. But there's more. It's not just her features he's captured, but her essence—her stubborn little chin, the mischievous tilt of her head, the spark of magic at her fingertips.

"How did you..." I swallow hard. "You've barely spent any time with her."

"I see her." His voice drops lower. "I see you both."

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