41. Blaine

Chapter 41

Blaine

I 'm stuck on the easing labor pains chapter in the pregnancy book.

I've read the book twice now, highlighted sections to return to, and others that, fascinating as they are, I have trouble understanding what it would feel like.

Like labor pains.

It can last twenty-four hours. Sometimes even forty-eight.

Try as I might, I couldn't imagine trying to push a baby out for two days, so I jumped on my laptop to watch a video of a natural birth.

Big mistake.

I have never fumbled to close a tab so fast before in my life. It was… traumatic. For me, the husband getting his hand crushed by his pregnant wife, and most of all, for her from all the screaming.

I close the book.

I don't want Resa to hurt any more than she already has, but I don't know how to help her.

Resa isn't talking to anyone about what she suffered, though sometimes I'll catch her staring off into the distance and her expression is haunted. I don't know what she's thinking about. I just know they can't be happy thoughts.

I'd suggest she talk to a therapist, but I've been fighting a battle against seeing one for years, so I'm the last person who should be trying to convince Resa to talk through her trauma.

My trauma feels ingrained in me. It's hard to remember what I was like before the car crash. It's like looking back at a stranger and trying to imagine being that person.

Summer is the worst.

I settle for thin, almost skintight cotton fabric, but that doesn't stop me from sweating. From morning to night, I'm burning up.

There's a reason the house runs cool, and the AC is almost always running. The reason is Garrison. Everyone in the house freezes to make my trauma a little more manageable. No one complains, but it's embarrassing and frustrating when it should be the easiest thing in the world to just wear a fucking T-shirt like everyone else.

My attention swings back to the pregnancy book on my desk.

Sadie told us to let Resa take the lead on deciding when or even if she wants to talk about the baby. The book was Garrison's idea after Resa started bleeding. Three copies of the same book. One for Resa when she's ready to read it.

One copy for Vaughn and Garrison to pass between them, since Vaughn is an impatiently fast reader and Garrison is a slow, thoughtful one. Vaughn finished reading in a day, then passed the book to Garrison. As the slowest reader, I have my own copy. I like to take my time, ensuring I miss nothing. All so we can help Resa through her pregnancy.

Except labor pains.

I don't know how I can help her through that.

Back massages? Meditation? A warm bath ?

How the hell is a warm bath supposed to help a woman through one of the most painful experiences of her life? Why not just start with the drugs and prevent any pain at all?

"I need to do more research that doesn't involve birth videos or ask Sadie before this drives me crazy," I mutter.

But it's late now.

The glass of water I leave on my nightstand is empty, so I get to my feet and head for the door to go downstairs and refill it.

Garrison will be the only one still awake as he takes an eternity to work on a puzzle, which he says is the only thing that quietens his mind enough to sleep.

I'm nearly at the staircase when a soft female whimper halts my steps.

There's no guessing who it is.

Resa.

Her bedroom is on the other side of the staircase. Her door must be closed. There's not a hint of light coming from that direction.

I hesitate. Do I go knock on her door in case she's having a nightmare?

And if she is, then what?

That is omega territory. No alphas allowed. Lex is staying with Marie in her apartment, and when Vaughn goes to sleep, waking him up requires extreme patience and persistence.

The soft whimper arrows down the hallway. Louder this time. Like she's hurt.

Makes it impossible to take another step away.

Something is wrong.

I can't leave my scent match hurting like that. I have to help her.

Turning from the staircase, I move silently toward Resa's door.

I knock softly and press my ear to the wood, straining to hear her response. "Resa?"

Silence.

I knock a little harder, raising my voice. "Resa?"

Again, nothing.

I stare at the white wood, knuckles raised, torn about what to do.

Do I get Garrison to take over? Or shove Vaughn out of his bed to wake him up fast? Both of them would do what needs to be done while I stand hovering with indecision.

"Get Garrison," I decide, turning away.

"No. Stop. Please stop," Resa begs.

I halt.

That soft cry changes everything.

I give up knocking. I need to do something about that desperate begging. It's going to involve crossing into omega territory, but if Resa is hurting, I can't walk away.

I twist the door open.

Resa is on her bed, in a pair of blue and white striped cotton sleep shorts and T-shirt, her sheets mostly on the floor, curled up in the fetal position. The lamp on her bedside is on. She either sleeps with it on or fell asleep before she had a chance to turn it off.

From the doorway, it's clear she's struggling through a nightmare. A bad one. Her cheeks are wet, dark lashes spikey with tears.

And she's shivering. Or trembling.

She needs me.

The carpet in her room is softer than the hallway. This is a room we had decorated but barely anyone has stepped foot in it but Resa. My feet sink into it as I cross over to Resa. I place my empty glass on her bedside table next to the small sharp knife Vaughn gave her, and perch on the edge of her bed, lifting my fingers to her flushed cheeks.

And stop.

Again frozen with indecision.

The last time I reached out to touch someone was… years ago. Before that brief correction in the gym, I have done everything possible to avoid touch.

Now my scent match needs comfort.

Touch will not hurt. It is in your head. It is all in your head.

I can't leave her suffering for another second longer. I touch her cheek, bracing myself for the pain anyway.

But I didn't think to brace myself for the softness of her satiny skin. It's addictive. This touching.

"It's a dream," I whisper. "No one is hurting you. You're safe."

I stroke back the damp hair from her face, speaking in low, soothing tones as I will away the nightmare that has its grip on her.

She's been going downstairs in the middle of the night, working on a puzzle with Garrison. Sometimes I hear the soft pad of her steps down the stairs. I wondered why she did it when we all knew she hates alphas. Is this why? Nightmares have made sleep something to fear? If I could kill every single person who hurt her, I would do it in a heartbeat. No regret. No guilt. None of them deserve an easy death.

She whimpers again, the sound returning me to the present.

She's not as restless now. And as I stroke her cheek, she makes a soft sound in the back of her throat and leans into my touch as if she craves more of it.

So do I.

The desperate need to crawl into her bed, pull her into my lap and bury my face against her neck and shoulder to inhale her scent is overwhelming.

I stamp the urge down.

I'm invading a space I shouldn't. That's bad enough as it is. I can't invite myself into her bed when she's not even awake to accept. I can't.

There's a reason she's sleeping with a knife beside her bed, and that reason has everything to do with her fear of a certain designation.

Alphas.

But she still needs soothing, and only an alpha has the ability to soothe an omega. As I stroke her cheek, I purr, the rumbling sound that brings comfort to omegas filling the room.

She makes that soft sound again and shuffles closer, her face nearly pressed against my thigh. I keep expecting her to wake up, find me here and scream at me to get out. She sleeps on, and gradually, her breathing evens out.

I don't know how long I stay perched on the side of her bed, my eyes on her face. My fingers alternate between caressing her cheek and sweeping damp strands of her hair from her forehead. And purring. Always purring to comfort her in one of the few ways I can.

When she fully relaxes, I know she's out of the nightmare.

So there's no reason to stay.

I don't move.

"You're so beautiful," I whisper.

Too beautiful to be mine. Someone, somewhere, decided our scents were compatible. Just as it decided that Garrison and I would share a scent match. I don't deserve it. Not the way I am now.

But she looks at you and doesn't see the scars. She just sees you.

I should stop touching her now that I've done what I came here to do.

I consider kissing her cheek. Just once. But her cheek is dangerously close to her lips, and I'm not sure where my kiss will land. Probably somewhere it shouldn't.

I force myself to get up, pick the fallen sheet from the floor and cover Resa with it, tucking it under her chin. I walk out, closing her door before I give into the urge to crawl into the bed beside her and never leave.

In my room, I can still smell the sweet peach fragrance of her skin on my hands, and I have no desire to scrub it away. It's a reminder my scent match isn't just here, I've touched her, and it wasn't painful but pleasurable.

And I helped her out of a nightmare.

Me .

The smart thing to do would be to take a shower, wash away her scent, and pretend tonight didn't happen. So why do I crawl into bed, switch the light off, and pull the sheets over my head?

And why do I sleep better with her scent surrounding me than I ever have?