Chapter 8: Tyler

Something wakes me in the middle of the night. Immediately, I'm on alert, although I'm not sure yet why. I assume it's one of the babies that woke me, so I lie still, listening intently for one of them to cry. But there's no sound coming from the bassinettes.

I slowly allow myself to relax. My arm is around Ian's waist, and my nose is tucked against the back of his head. I breathe in his scent, and it calms me. Just as I'm drifting back to sleep, it happens again, but this time I know exactly where it's coming from.

It's Ian.

He shudders in my arms and with a heartrending whimper, he tries to pull away from me. Naturally, I tighten my hold on him, thinking that will reassure him, but it has the opposite effect. He starts fighting me, even in his sleep. The sounds he's making—cries of pain and fear—break my heart.

It's always the same dream—he relives his nightmarish childhood, being locked in a dark room for hours on end with little food or water. The windows are boarded up, blocking out even the moonlight. His birth mother—a crack whore—prostitutes herself downstairs, entertaining multiple johns a night. And all the while, for hours at a time, her terrified young son is locked upstairs, alone and afraid and hungry.

"Shh," I murmur, my lips in his hair. "Ian, you're safe. I'm here."

His struggling increases.

"Ian!"

He jerks in my arms as he tries to pull away and screams, "No!"

"Ian, wake up." I roll him to face me and grip his chin. "Look at me."

His eyes flash wide open, but his gaze is unfocused. He blinks once, twice, then looks around the darkened room before settling on me. "I—" All his energy deserts him.

It was always the same. All night long, he'd hear all sorts of sounds coming from downstairs—men shouting at his mother; his mother crying, begging, and even sometimes screaming. Every night, it was the same, a never-ending nightmare, until one day, after a neighbor reported hearing Ian's frequent cries, the local children's protective agency got involved and removed him from the home.

After months of going back and forth between his birth mother and foster care, Ian's birth mother lost her parental rights permanently, paving the way for Eleanor and Martin Alexander to adopt him.

Thank God.

I fully believe Eleanor and Martin saved Ian's life.

He turns away from me, his breathing choppy and uneven.

I rub his arm. "Do you want to talk about it?" Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't.

Ian shakes his head. Instead, he pulls my arm around his waist once more and holds tightly to it. He presses his face into his pillow and lets out a muffled, agonized cry. His pain hits me like a punch to my gut.

I roll him back to face me. "You're not in that room anymore, baby. You're free. You're safe."

Tears stream down his cheeks as he violently shakes his head. "No," he gasps, his voice shaky. "It wasn't—me—in there." His voice breaks on a quiet sob. "It wasn't me locked—up—in the dark." He sucks in a breath.

I frown in confusion. "Then who—"

"It was Will and Lizzie." He stares into my eyes, his own stricken with pain. "They were trapped in that god-awful room, and we couldn't get to them. We tried, over and over, but we couldn't reach them. The door was locked." He shudders violently in my arms. "I can still hear them screaming for us, begging for us to free them. I tried! You tried! You slammed your body against the door, but it wouldn't budge."

My hold on Ian tightens. "Ian—" I have to pause a moment to rein in my emotions. Sometimes the need to track down his birth mother is more than I can handle. "Ian, I swear to you on my life, I will never let anything happen to you or to our kids. No one is going to—"

"They were my age, back then, they were four and they could talk. We could hear them calling for us, begging for us to save them."

I force him to look at me. "It was a dream. Trust me, there's no door on Earth I wouldn't be able to break through if I needed to get to you or our kids."

His eyes search mine in the dim early morning light, looking for reassurance. Eventually, he nods. Then he pulls free of me, gets out of bed, and walks to the bassinettes. I join him as he stares down at our babies, who are sound asleep and have no idea their daddy is having an emotional meltdown.

When he shivers in the cool night air, I pull him back against me, his bare torso pressed against mine, and I warm him with my body. I press my lips against the shell of his ear. "Everything's okay. They're fine."

He nods as he clutches my arms. "I hate her for what she did to me. I hate her for making me like this."

I kiss the spot behind his ear. "There's nothing wrong with you."

Finally, I'm able to lead him back to bed. I lie down beside him, pull him into my arms, and tuck the covers around us.

Ian drifts back to sleep to the sound of me whispering sweet nothings against his temple.

I monitor Ian's breathing until he finally falls into a deep sleep. It's been 26 years since Ian was taken away from his abusive birth mother, and still the nightmares haunt him. I'm afraid they always will.

* * *

Ian's usual bubbly personality is nowhere to be seen the following morning. While I make breakfast, he sits at the kitchen table, Lizzie cradled in his arms as he gives her a bottle. We're having pancakes this morning—pancakes always cheer Ian up—with sausage links and orange juice. When the food's ready, I set a plate in front of him, then bring over the butter dish and a small pitcher of warm maple syrup.

"Do you want me to take her?" I ask. "I'll finish giving her a bottle while you eat."

Ian shakes his head. "I can manage."

He's juggling a baby and a bottle. I don't see how he can manage a fork, too. He's also not making eye contact with me.

"Ian?" I take a seat at the table. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head, still managing to avoid my gaze.

"Clearly, something's bothering you. Do you want to talk to someone else? Your mom? Your sister? My mom? Beth?" These are the people he trusts the most.

Ian finally looks at me, his eyes filled with tears. "How could she do it?" He glances down at Lizzie, who's eagerly sucking on her bottle. "Children are so defenseless, so vulnerable. They rely on their parents for absolutely everything—to keep them safe. Hell, to keep them alive . How could she do the things she did to me?"

I'm at a loss for what to say. We've discussed this before, and I know Ian's well aware of how addiction affects people, distorting their judgment, hijacking their decision-making. It's an insidious illness.

He gazes down at Lizzie, a sad smile on his face. "I could never do what she did."

I lean over and squeeze his shoulder. "Of course, you couldn't."

"I love them too much. Did she just not love me enough?"

My heart is aching for Ian, my stomach hollowed out. Once more, I have to fight the urge to track down his birth mother and— oh, hell . What could I possibly do to that bitch that wouldn't land me in prison?

I fix myself a plate of food and sit at the table with Ian while I eat.

Ian still looks preoccupied.

I reach for my coffee. "Still hungry? Want more to eat?"

He shakes his head. "I'm good. Thanks. It was delicious." He takes a sip of coffee, then says, "I need to call my attorney. I've been avoiding it because I don't want to leave the house to go to his office, but I can't keep putting it off."

Ian has left the house only once since we brought the babies home—last week when we took them to their first appointment with the pediatrician. Otherwise, he's been a total homebody. That's really not like him. He's usually so outgoing. In his free time, he's either on his yacht or out taking photographs, almost always with me in tow. I don't like him going out on his own. He's not easily recognized in public, but because of his wealth he's often a target for unwanted attention.

"I guess I have to come with you," I offer. I keep my tone casual, even, because I don't want him to think I'm being overprotective.

He frowns. "Yes, because your name is on everything now. You'll have to sign for the changes, too."

Ian's net worth is a staggering amount of money that continues to grow because it earns way more in interest than he spends. Ian's paternal grandfather, Tobias Martin Alexander, made several fortunes with a telecommunications company he founded in the early twentieth century. Ian's younger sister, Layla, inherited the other half of the Alexander dynasty. The two of them are on every Forbes list imaginable. Looking at Ian, with his trendy pop culture T-shirts and ripped jeans, you'd never guess.

Before we married, Ian refused my suggestion that he have his attorney draw up a prenuptial agreement, even though I begged him to.

"Nope. What's mine is yours now, too," he'd insisted. So now I'm officially part of the trust. And now we need to update the trust to provide for our children. I glance at these two-week old babies who have absolutely no idea of the wealth they'll inherit one day.

"We need to figure out what to do with the kids while we're gone," Ian says, frowning as he mulls over the problem.

"Can't we take them with us?"

He shakes his head. "They're too young to go out. Do you know how many germs are out there? There's that awful respiratory virus going around, not to mention yet another new strain of Covid. And they're not fully vaccinated yet."

"Then we'll get a babysitter."

Ian nods as he props Lizzie against his shoulder and pats her back. When she lets out a loud burb, he smiles. "That's my girl. Let's ask your mom if she's free to babysit. My mom will be working, and Layla's busy with midterms coming up."

Ian's adopted mother, Eleanor, is an assistant district attorney in Chicago.

"I'll call my mom," I say. "I'm pretty sure she'd jump at the chance to babysit."

I carry our plates to the sink, rinse them off, and put them in the dishwasher. Ian still hasn't said a word, and it's worrying me. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I cross my arms over my chest. "What's bothering you, baby?"

Ian's gaze shoots to mine. "Nothing. I had a bad dream. That's all."

"Bullshit." I cross the room and take Lizzie from him and lay her in her infant seat. Then I pull Ian up onto his feet. "It's more than that." We're nearly the same height—I'm just a tad taller—so it's easy for me to stare him in the eye. "Talk to me."

When he looks away, I slip my hand around to cup the back of his head. My fingers slide into his hair. "Talk to me," I repeat, my voice low and quiet.

Ian sighs. "I'm afraid to tell you."

Now it's my turn to frown. "Afraid to tell me what? You know you can tell me anything."

He blows out a heavy breath. "I know we talked about doing the PI business together, that we'd be partners, and in the beginning I was all for it—really, I was. Hell, it was my idea. But now—well—"

"Now what?"

He gives me such a beseeching look. And then he blurts out the words so fast I can barely follow. "I want to be a stay-at-home dad. I don't want to work. I want to take care of our kids."

I'm finding it hard not to smile. He was all worked up over nothing. "This is what's been weighing on your mind? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Because I wasn't sure how you'd react."

I sigh. "You should have said something before now. I think it's a great idea. In fact, that answers the question about what we're going to do for childcare."

"You're okay with me staying home?"

"Yes." Hell, yes. I'd be able to go to work without worrying every second that Ian could get hurt.

His hopeful expression is just too much. "Really? Ingrid said you'd be okay with it."

"As usual, my mother is right." I hold him at arm's length so I can see his face. "Ian, please, I beg you. Next time, tell me what's on your mind. Don't tie yourself up in knots worrying about how I'll react."

Even though he nods, he looks far from confident.

"Oh, my God," I say, cupping his face as I lean in to kiss him. "What am I going to do with you? When have I ever said no to you?"