Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

FRANCESCA (FRANKIE) HOLT

There's someone in my house. My first waking thought is also the scariest thought a woman living alone can have. Since my brother, Hyram, got sentenced for the beat down he gave my asshole ex, I've been on edge. I can't be positive, but I'm pretty sure Mark, said asshole ex, has been following me. I'm also pretty sure he's been messing with stuff just enough for me to know he's around, but not so much I won't sound ridiculous if I tell anyone.

Oddly enough, it's the smell of bacon frying that settles my racing heart. Mark refused to set foot in the kitchen throughout our two years together, insisting it's women's work. As if it wasn't a new millennium. The memory of how hard he longed for the good old days startles a huff of annoyance right out of me. Not that he was even alive all those decades ago. Mark never let that stop him from insisting things were so much better back when women knew their place. Of course, he didn't like hearing men provided for their family's every need, so women could be homemakers, in those days. Nope, he didn't like that idea at all, and I got the split lip to prove it.

So whoever is cooking bacon in my apartment at… I squint an eye to read the alarm clock on the nightstand. Whoever it is at six-thirty in the morning isn't Mark. It's sad that I'm so relieved the person who's broken into my place isn't the boyfriend who knocked me up and then tried beating the baby out of me when he got tired of my morning sickness, but that's the truth of things.

If whoever is in my kitchen wanted to hurt me, they had plenty of time while I was lying in my bed sleeping. Ergo, I convince myself this must be someone who means me no harm. As foolish as trusting the unknown is, what other choice do I have? Call the cops? Yeah. Right. Not only is Mark Bensen a cop, which definitely went against Hyrum when it was time for sentencing, but so is Mark's dad, his brother, and his uncle. His sister's even an emergency dispatcher. With my luck, I'd call 911, and she'd hang up on me.

I crawl out from beneath the covers and thank fate it was cold enough last night I wore sleep pants and a hoodie to bed. The baby may be kicking at my bladder, but I've got to figure out what's going on before I close myself in the one room of my apartment without even a window for escape. Not that my unwieldy ass is likely to make it out a window onto the fire escape anyway, but today's not the day I'm admitting to being a clumsy girlie.

I do, however, creep into the bathroom long enough to grab my glasses from the toothbrush cup. Apparently, pregnancy brain is a real thing, because these hormones are making me forget what I'm doing while I'm doing it. They're also making me hornier than a dog in heat, but that's also a thing I won't be admitting to today.

As silently as possible, I creep along the short hallway to the open-plan living room slash kitchen area. There's no masking the gasp that breaks the quiet when I spot the biggest man I've ever seen standing at my stove. He's pure beefcake from the back in a tight gray t-shirt, a pair of low-slung jeans literally the only article of clothing he wears. I know this because there's a rip along the back pocket that trails down his massive thigh. The two edges of denim being held together by a shoelace tying each side together. In between each crisscross of bright white lace, a peek of tanned skin makes it obvious he's going commando.

Commando in ripped jeans and barefoot, cooking bacon in my kitchen, as if he belongs there. Muscles on muscles on muscles ripple along his shoulders and tapered waist when he leans forward to turn off the burner. Black and gray tattoos dance along his skin, and when he turns to face me, I see they're all over his chest and arms, too. Like me, he wears glasses. But where mine make me look like a mouse, the wire frames perched on his wide nose give him a scholarly look that's at odds with his thick beard and neck tattoo.

Belated panic seizes me, and I hurl the toothbrush that's still inexplicably in my hand at his head. He catches it midair without missing a beat, the smile on his face only slightly less terrifying than his presence in my home.

"How did you get in here? Who are you?" I screech.

"Cuteness, if I'm making you breakfast in bed, all I ask is a simple thank you and that you wait, in bed, for me to finish cooking. None of this ‘how did you break in here' nonsense." His teasing words are at odds with the intensity in his deep-set brown eyes.

True fear takes hold of me, my knees turning into jelly. All it takes is two steps by his mile-long legs in my direction to bring him to my side in time to catch me. He carries me to one of the two barstools at the counter and settles me into the high-back wooden seat. His body and the arms of the chair cage me in, the fresh soap scent of him and warmth radiating from his skin weirdly piercing through my panic.

"Deep breaths, Cuteness. Didn't Hyram tell you I was coming to take care of you?" His playfulness is gone now, leaving only laser-sharp observation as he eyes the way fear has my pulse tripping in the hollow of my throat. "Fear hormones are bad for the baby, Frankie. Gonna need you to breathe in now. Big breath and hold it. Count to four with me."

He counts slowly while I desperately hold the air in my lungs before he guides me through a slow exhale. We repeat the process a few times until I'm calm enough for my brother's name to sink in.

"Hy sent you? Why?" I rasp.

"Because he can't protect you or that baby where he's at, and I can. I will." There's no hesitation in his statement. It feels like a vow. Maybe, it's weak of me to accept this stranger, who broke into my house and claims to know my brother, can save me. I don't care how pathetic it makes me. If the universe sees fit to send me a white knight, I'm accepting the help.

Not just for myself, but for the innocent little human growing inside me. The one who doesn't deserve to be hurt or killed simply because he or she has the misfortune to have Mark Benson for a father.

"Okay, but I don't eat meat. Sorry, the bacon's going to go to waste." I've been a vegetarian for years, but since the morning sickness that plagued my first five months of pregnancy went away, I crave the scent of fresh bacon so desperately I've been cooking a couple times a day, just so I can smell it.

"I'm aware of your dietary needs, Cuteness. The bacon is for me to eat and for you to smell. There's oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar in the pot, and a blueberry bagel with jalapeno cream cheese on your plate already." The casual reference to the breakfast I've eaten daily for the past week registers at the same time I realize there's no way he could have learned that from Hyram. My brother's been locked up for months, and these cravings are new. That means?—

"Have you been stalking me?" I gasp.

"It's not stalking when it's to keep watch over what's mine." There's no shame in his unwavering declaration.

"And make no mistake, Francesca Holt. You and that baby are mine."

I want to ask if he's claiming me because he owes my brother a favor or if he really means it. I'm unsure which answer is more scary, so I snatch the tall glass of orange juice the man hands me and ignore my heavy bladder in favor of obeying his wordless demand.

If claiming me as his own keeps the baby and me safe from Mark, he can own me for as long as he wants. So instead of running to my room to grab my phone and call for help, I take my seat at the table.

"I guess if we're yours, I should probably know your name," I say. Maybe he told me already and I missed it, but who would blame me for missing a few details given the strangeness of this morning.

"Arlo. Arlo James." He doesn't look like an Arlo. Not that I've ever met anyone called that before. It's a name I would picture a bookish type with a slight build. And even wearing glasses, there's absolutely nothing bookish about Arlo James' look.

He looks like a savage who would demolish anyone trying to go up against him. For the first time since I met my ex, a tiny flicker of hope for the future ignites inside me.