Babysitting The Amnesiac Lycan King novel Chapter 125

CHAPTER 125

“What are you guys still standing there for?” The CEO who informed Jacob walks over in his Italian accent, shooing us away. My eyes widen as I turned towards him. That means I am not the one Jacob meant when he said he has found a lead? It wasn’t me?

Itum to Ser and my breathing became ragged as we both turned around after a small bow of courtesy. Shit. Holy fucking shit. He actually hasn’t caught on. I turn to Seraphina who is walking straight ahead looking like she doesn’t have anything to hide. She’s amazing at this, wow.

The name on the office door isn’t mine.

Teresa Savelli. Temporary associate. Boring–ass desk, Squeaky clean company. I walk over to the bathroom, ready to puke my guts out from what just happened back there. That is not something I expected to be in my Bingo card.

I press my back against the bathroom wall and breathe through my nose.

Cold tiles. Cold floor. Cold sweat.

“Fuck.”

Seraphina leans against the sink like she owns it–arms crossed, Louboutin heels locked, lips pursed like she’s about to spit out something nasty but expensive.

“You good?” she asks. Not gentle, not warm. Just impatient.

“No,” I mutter. “I’m about three seconds away from vomiting my soul into the sink. So, y’know, peachy”

She doesn’t laugh. She never laughs. She sighs and tosses me a mini Evian from her handbag like I’m a damn stray.

“You’re Teresa Savelli,” she snaps. “Temp secretary. Milan. No pack. No wolf. No history.”

She walks up, closes the distance like we’re about to make out or kill each other, and hisses, “And you definitely don’t know what a fucking Lycan is, got it?”

I nod slowly. My heart thuds like it’s trying to crawl out of my ribs. There’s a baby inside me. A tiny little heartbeat under mine, echoing like a ghost every time I stop long enough to listen. Ser leaves to guard the office door outside, just in case another thing comes up.

I’m a bit unlucky so I wouldn’t even argue with her about that.

I splash cold water on my face again. The marble sink looks like a damn museum piece–clean, white, perfect. As if it doesn‘ t belong to someone who ran from a King.

I stare at my reflection. My hair’s tied up in a low bun. I’m wearing pencil skirts now. Nude lipstick. Fucking kitten heels. No one would believe I used to stitch open wounds while a half–dead Lycan king growled in my ear.

“Taryn Sinclair is dead,” I whisper to my reflection. “She died the night he looked me in the eyes as he told me I… wasn’t worth anything any longer.”

The mirror doesn’t argue.

I place both hands on my stomach. Still flat. Still invisible. But it’s there. I feel it. Something alive, something mine. Something his.

Fuck, it’s still baffling how I’m carrying his baby right now. Inside me.

“I swear to God, I’m trying,” I whisper to it. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I’m trying to keep you safe.”

Seraphina knocks on the stall door like she’s over it. “Clock’s ticking, Mother Teresa. You’ve got a whole–ass executive suite waiting to see if you can alphabetize without crying.”

I flip her off through the mirror and grab my ID badge from the sink.

It reads Teresa Savelli – Temp Marketing Assistant.

The lie fits like a noose.

My office is small but stupidly pretty. Modern glass desk. Fresh orchids. A view of a canal where a couple argues in rapid Italian as if it’s foreplay.

On the desk is a welcome card.

Benvenuta, Teresa! It’s got a damn smiley face. Kill me.

My tasks for the day are even worse: transcribe a finance report, update press kits, and edit a newsletter that sounds like it was written by a caffeinated robot. No scandal. No danger. Just quarterly projections and marketing fluff.

My brain short–circuits ten minutes in.

I used to chase leads like they were lifelines. Now I’m proofreading a bullet–point list about tax incentives and trying not to

throw up.

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CHAPTER 125

But the quiet? The normalcy?

God, it’s almost addictive.

No screaming. No blood. No Enoch.

I can pretend, for just a second, that I’m a regular twenty–something trying to pay off student loans and not the fucking mate of the most dangerous Lycan alive.

I bite my lip and force myself to focus on a sentence about eco–sustainable investments. If I stare at the page long enough,

I might actually forget how it felt when Enoch’s voice broke telling me I was his wetness.

His fucking curse.

My phone buzzes.

It’s Seraphina.

Jacob is on the executive floor. He hasn’t left.

Stay away from the elevators.

Pretend you’re nobody.

My stomach drops. My throat dries up.

Jacob.

If he’s here, then he can’t be far behind. I close the finance report and shut the laptop like it just confessed to murder.

I am nobody.

Not Taryn Sinclair. Not a mate. Not a journalist.

Just a temp with shaky Italian and an increasingly loud heartbeat.

I grip the edge of my desk, my breath stuttering.

If he finds me, I don’t know what I’ll do.

But I sure as hell won’t let him take this baby from me. Not again. Not ever.

It’s been three days in this company and I couldn’t get a single wink of sleep knowing Beta Jacob is still in town. I am not sure when exactly Enoch would be arriving and honestly, just thinking about it feels like a sinkhole is opening in my stomach. It’s nerve–wracking.

I turn to catch a bit of myself in the mirror and my heart drops to my stomach. Is this a pregnancy thing? I don’t look like myself.

Not in this cream silk blouse Seraphina swore by. Not with my hair smoothed into a high twist and secured with a gold pin that screams I have my shit together even though I cried in the shower at 4 a.m. over a fucking croissant commercial.

Fake. All of it.

But here I am, smiling through my teeth at an intern who just dropped his entire tray of espressos, splattering the marble floors like blood at a crime scene. Seraphina would say that’s dramatic. I say–accurate.

“Buongiorno, Teresa,” Marco calls as he sets a cappuccino on my desk with a wink. “Still don’t sound Italian. What’s your story again?”

“Swiss boarding school,” I answer, not missing a beat. “My family traveled a lot. you see.”

He laughs like that explains everything. He probably thinks I’m rich. Or mysterious. Or some weird mix of both. I let him think it. The less anyone knows, the better.

Even in a city of masks and marble, I can feel it–the crack forming. Someone jokes in the break room about how that girl with the bounty looks just like Teresa. I pretend to spill my water to change the subject.

Ha. Smooth.

But that whisper? The one that slinks across my spine like a cold finger?

“CEO was in a meeting with another foreign guys this morning… I really feel like the girl they’re looking for is here.”

I stop breathing for a second. Then keep typing like my fingers aren’t shaking under the keyboard.

Can’t be him. Won’t be him.

But then Jacob passes by my

Twice.

floor.

And the second time, he pauses outside the glass partition like he’s sniffing out something familiar. I duck my head, forcing a soft smile toward my monitor and muttering something about deadlines. I’m pretty sure Ser doused me with that scent-

CHAPTER 125

covering perfume. I sure as hell hopes it covered the smell of this living thing inside me.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just walks.

But I feel it–his suspicion. It’s got teeth.

It’s lunchtime when it happens.

I’m minding my own business, running a job that Seraphina should’ve assigned to literally anyone else, when a wide–eyed intern bolts toward me like she just witnessed a murder.

“Printer’s dead,” she blurts, clutching a folder like it’s a life raft. “It won’t even light up. I have to get these contracts signed by three–please–I don’t know how to fix it.”

Lucky me. Why does he think I would know?

I mutter a “Sure, I’ll take a look,” and follow her into the cramped office supply room two floors down. It’s quiet. Warm. Smells like toner and lemon cleaner.

I crouch beside the printer, pop the lid, and start fiddling.

And then the door opens.

Fuck.

My heart stutters. Slams.

Jacob.

He stops in the doorway like he walked into a goddamn memory. His hand hovers on the doorknob as his eyes lock on me -and narrow.

I can feel his confusion. Recognition.

The way his gaze drags over my profile like he’s matching puzzle pieces. I keep my face turned just enough. Just enough to hide the truth.

He steps inside, closes the door softly behind him.

I stand slowly before I look right at him.

“Ciao,” I offer, light and fake as a Hallmark card. Seraphina’s accent lessons are finally paying off.

His brow furrows. He tilts his head like a wolf catching a scent.

Shit.

I pretend to sneeze–loud, awkward–and wave it off like I’m embarrassed. “Scusi. Allergies.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t fucking move.

I grab the intern’s folder, mumble something about IT support, and brush past him.

He lets me go.

But his stare is a blade down my back all the way out.

***

I don’t sleep.

Not really.

Milan at night is bright and alive and cruel–neon signs bleeding across my apartment walls like broken promises. I journal, or pretend to. The pages stay mostly blank. Then I start writing a letter I’ll never send. The kind that feels as though cutting open a wound just to see if it still bleeds.