One week after the twins were born, the mansion had learned three things. Sleep was a rumor. The staircase remained suspicious. Andrew looked unfairly ethereal for someone functioning on forty-seven cumulative minutes of rest.
It was 6:12 a.m. The sun poured gold through the curtains, catching in Andrew's golden-brown hair where it fell messily over his forehead. His hazel eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion but sharp enough to detect movement from across the room like a predator tracking prey. Which, in this case, was a baby wiggling with intent.
He sat in the armchair near the nursery window, one twin cradled against his chest, nursing lazily. The room smelled warm — honey-rich and steady, the comforting, thick sweetness of Andrew's pheromones filling the space like a weighted blanket.
