Chapter 174: A Good Mom

Amelia POV

I stormed into the house, my blood still simmering. Me, unfit for motherhood? The audacity of it gnawed at my pride. I'm Amelia Colt, Dancer of Round Table's Nocturne, a name carved in blood and precision since I was fourteen. I get what I want. Always have. And I don't take kindly to being told what I can't do.

Jason followed me in, his steps measured, deliberate, the way a handler approaches a feral animal. He caught my arm, guiding me to the couch with a firm but gentle grip. I let him, though every muscle in me itched to pull away. He sat beside me.

"Amelia, listen," he started, voice low, steady, like he was defusing a bomb. "Raising a child isn't just a decision. It's a responsibility. You have to pour everything into it—every ounce of heart. You can't approach it like training a killer at Nocturne. It's not about drills or survival. It's about love."

I scoffed, leaning back with a smirk that didn't reach my eyes. "Love? Jason, I grew up dodging bullets before I could spell my own name. Look at me now. I run the Round Table. I'm doing just fine without some fairy-tale childhood full of hugs and bedtime stories. A kid can survive without all that nonsense."

His gaze softened, not with pity, but with something heavier—understanding. "I get it. You've never had a frame of reference for a normal family. Your world was kill or be killed, long before most kids even learn to ride a bike. But that's exactly why this matters. A child shouldn't have to claw their way through life like you did. Parents are supposed to be the shield, the safety net. They're supposed to give love, not just lessons in endurance."

I stared at him, the words sinking in like slow-acting venom. Shield. Safety. Love. Concepts as foreign to me as a civilian's nine-to-five. My childhood was a blur of gunfire and hunger, followed by the cold elegance of Nocturne's training.

But as I looked at Jason, his face etched with a quiet resolve, something shifted. A crack in the armor I'd built over years of bloodshed. Maybe... maybe there was something to learn here. "Fine," I said finally, my tone softer, almost thoughtful. "I'll try. I'll learn this... normal parent thing. Whatever that means."

Jason nodded, a faint relief flickering across his features. "It's not something you master overnight. It's a slow build, day by day. Small things—patience, presence, care. You start there, and it grows."

A grin tugged at my lips, sharp and teasing, as I tilted my head. "And what exactly do you want to start with, Agent Redmond? Got a lesson plan for me?"

His eyes darkened, a smirk of his own creeping in as he leaned closer. "Oh, you know what I want. It's been too damn long since we've..." He didn't finish, but the heat in his voice said enough.

I didn't wait for him to. In a single, fluid motion, I launched myself at him, my lips crashing against his, sealing off whatever words were coming next. The kiss was hungry, raw, a battlefield of its own. "Come on then, Agent," I murmured against his mouth, my voice a low purr. "Teach me how normal parents do it."

He didn't hesitate. His arms encircled me, strong and sure, lifting me off the couch. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my hands gripping the back of his neck as he carried me toward the bedroom. The world narrowed to the heat of his touch, the steady rhythm of his breath against my skin. We'd fought side by side together, but this was a different kind of combat. One I'd never tire of.

The bedroom door shut behind us with a quiet click. Clothes hit the floor in a hurried tangle—my shirt, his jacket, a haphazard trail of intent. His hands were everywhere, mapping my scars with a reverence that always caught me off guard. I pushed him down onto the bed, straddling him.

Control? I needed it, craved it, even here. But Jason knew me too well. He flipped us over in a heartbeat, pinning me beneath him, his weight a grounding force.

"Slow down, Dancer," he rasped, his lips brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "We've got time."

Time. A luxury I'd never had. But with him, I let myself believe it, just for a moment. Our bodies moved in sync, a rhythm older than any war, more primal than any kill. Every touch, every gasp, was a silent promise—something beyond the bloodshed that defined us. Sweat slicked our skin, breaths ragged, the room a cocoon of heat and whispered need. His hands gripped my hips, guiding, claiming, and I let myself fall into it, the edge of control blurring until it didn't matter who held it.

After, as we lay tangled in the sheets, his chest rising and falling beneath my head, he turned to me. His voice was a quiet rumble, intimate in the stillness. "Keep doing this, Amelia... keep letting me in. You're gonna be a good mom. I know it."

I didn't respond right away, just traced the lines of a scar on his arm with my fingertip. A good mom. The words felt like a foreign language, but lying there, with the weight of his belief pressing against me, I let myself imagine it.

For the first time, it didn't seem entirely out of reach.