Back with His Twins for Christmas

Chapter 11

POV Charlotte

Leah's hand felt impossibly small in mine as we walked through the resort corridors, her grip trusting and warm in a way that did something strange to my chest.

She hadn't let go since Charlotte sent us away from that alcove, her tiny fingers wrapped around two of mine like she'd found something worth holding onto.

We rounded the corner near the game room and nearly collided with Peyton, who had Noah in tow. The boy's dark eyes flickered up to meet mine for just a moment before settling back on the floor—quiet recognition, nothing more.

"There you two are," Peyton said, falling into step beside us. "I was just telling Noah we should find Leah. It's wild, honestly, how different these two are from each other. Leah's all Charlotte—that honey-blonde hair, the way she never stops talking, zero fear of anything. She'd probably wrestle a bear if we let her."

She ruffled Leah's hair affectionately.

"And Noah's the complete opposite. Dark and quiet, like he's solving puzzles in his head nobody else can see. Only their faces match, really. Those eyes."

I glanced down at Leah as Peyton continued musing about how their personalities could use some balancing, how it would do Noah good to speak up more and Leah good to slow down occasionally.

Leah scrunched her nose indignantly, tugging my hand for emphasis.

"It would be SO boring if we were all quiet like Noah. Then who would make things fun? Someone has to talk, Aunt Peyton, or else everyone just sits around being sad and serious all the time. That's what I think, anyway."

I laughed despite myself, despite the tension still coiled tight in my shoulders from watching Tom Bradley's hands on Charlotte. "Can't argue with that logic, kiddo."

Leah tilted her face up toward me, grinning with her whole body the way only children could—and the world stopped.

Steel-blue eyes stared back at me.

My mother's eyes. My sister Emma's eyes. My own eyes, reflected in a five-year-old face framed by honey-blonde hair.

The goosebumps rose so fast and fierce that my skin felt electrified, every hair standing on end. I knew those eyes.

I saw them every morning in the mirror, every Christmas when Emma came home, every time I looked at the photograph of my mother that sat on my nightstand.

Leah's smile widened—Charlotte's smile, I realized now, Charlotte's exact smile—and she squeezed my hand tighter.

"I'm glad you're on my side, Dean. You're my favorite grown-up here. Don't tell Mommy, okay? She might get jealous, and then she'll make that face she makes when I eat cookies before dinner."

I managed something like a nod, my throat too tight for words, my mind spinning through calculations I didn't want to make. Seven years ago. New Year's Eve. Charlotte fleeing to Seattle pregnant, letting everyone believe the baby—babies—were Tom's.

The timing. The eyes. The way Noah tilted his head when he concentrated, the same way I did, the same way my mother used to.

We reached the playroom, and I moved on autopilot, my thoughts a roaring static that drowned out everything except the impossible possibility taking shape in my chest.

Noah immediately retrieved the truck we'd fixed together—still working perfectly, wheels spinning smooth—and settled onto the floor with quiet contentment.

Peyton's phone shattered the moment, shrill and insistent. She checked the screen and swore creatively, something involving anatomy that made both twins' eyes go wide with scandalized delight.

I cut in before they could repeat it. "Hey. Don't say what your aunt just said. Your mom won't appreciate it, and I don't want to be the one explaining where you learned that particular word."

Peyton winced apologetically, already grabbing her bag and backing toward the door.

"I completely forgot my client's spa appointment—she's been waiting fifteen minutes and she tips really well when she's not furious. Dean, can you stay just a little longer? Charlotte will be free soon, I'm certain, because literally no one can stand Tom Bradley for more than fifteen minutes. The man is exhausting."

I should have said no. I had a generator to check, the east slope lift cables still waiting for inspection, a hundred tasks that wouldn't complete themselves.

But Leah clasped her hands together beneath her chin in exaggerated pleading, her steel-blue eyes—my eyes—wide and hopeful.

"Please, Dean? Please please please? I want to show you the drawing I made, and Noah wants to show you how good the truck works now, and we'll be SO good, I promise."

Noah looked up from his truck with an expression of quiet hope that cut straight through my defenses.

"Yeah," I heard myself say. "I'll stay."

Peyton mouthed "thank you" and disappeared in a rush of yoga pants and essential oils, leaving me alone with two children who might be mine.

The silence that followed felt different. Heavier. I lowered myself to the floor, settling cross-legged near the twins, watching them with new eyes.

The shape of Leah's jaw. The way Noah's fingers moved with careful precision. A hundred small details I'd noticed without understanding, suddenly rearranging themselves into a pattern that made my chest ache.

I asked carefully—keeping it light, casual—what they thought of Tom.

The shift was immediate. Leah's sunshine dimmed like someone had drawn a curtain across it; she picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, not meeting my gaze. The silence stretched long enough that I almost took the question back.

"He yells a lot," she said finally, her voice smaller than I'd ever heard it. "At Mommy. Sometimes at us, if we're too loud or we go into rooms without knocking first. He doesn't like noise, and I'm noisy, so he doesn't like me very much. I tried being quiet once, but it made my stomach hurt, so I stopped."

Noah added quietly, barely audible, his eyes fixed on the truck in his hands: "He said I was difficult. Because I don't talk enough. He said normal kids talk and something must be wrong with me."

My hands curled into fists against my thighs, a hot wave of fury flooding through me so fast it nearly choked me.

That smug bastard in his designer suit, looking at me like I was dirt beneath his Italian leather shoes—that man had these children for years and made them feel like burdens. Made them feel wrong for being exactly who they were. Made Charlotte feel like she had to protect them alone against his cruelty.

I didn't think. I just moved, pulling both twins into my arms, tucking them against my chest on the playroom floor.

Leah burrowed into my flannel immediately, her small body fitting against mine like she'd always belonged there; Noah hesitated for only a moment before his fingers gripped my sleeve with surprising strength.

"Listen to me," I said, my voice rougher than I intended, thick with everything I couldn't say. "There is nothing wrong with either of you. Nothing. Leah, you're supposed to be loud and brave and ask a million questions—that's exactly right. And Noah, being quiet doesn't mean you're difficult. It means you're thinking, and thinking is good."

I tightened my arms around them both.

"No one is going to hurt you. Or your mom. Not while I'm here. Do you understand me?"

Leah nodded against my chest, and I felt rather than saw Noah's small affirmation.

I wasn't sure I had the right to make that promise.

I wasn't sure of anything anymore—not the past, not the future, not the tangled mess of lies and secrets that seemed to surround Charlotte like armor.

But these children mattered to me in a way that defied logic, and the protective instinct roaring through my blood felt ancient and absolute.

I held them tighter, breathing in the little-kid smell of them—soap and sugar and something indefinably innocent—and let myself wonder for the first time if the impossible might actually be true.