Chapter One

Eve

This nest isn't going to last.

I try to stretch, but nearly punch Baxter in the process, my knuckles grazing the side of his face.

Slowly, his amber eyes creak open. "Morning, little one."

I love this look on him: ruffled, drowsy, soft. On the one hand, I feel a little guilty for waking him. On the other …

I lean forward, brushing my lips against his. My neck throbs, reminding me of his mark. He snakes his hand around the small of my spine as he deepens the kiss.

Tingles spread across my body, ebbing out from the various bonds. Thorn's, first, on my collar. Marcus's and Riley's on my chest. Red's lower, on my rear, sensation fluttering down my thighs. Blood spins through my veins.

"You're awake," Riley hums, sandwiching me against Baxter.

I angle my head, trying to nuzzle her, when I catch Thorn's eye. His gaze drags over me the way it does every morning, making sure nothing bad has happened to me while he slept.

"Mm …" Marcus untangles himself from Red, reaching for his phone. "It's still early. Sure you don't want to rest another half hour?"

No, alpha, I go to tell him, but something distracts me. My inner omega making her displeasure known.

My alphas seem to sense it, too. Even Red groans awake, observing me with a bleary scowl. "'Mega?"

They're going to be stiff all day , my omega grumbles. They do their best to hide it, but I've noticed their faint grimaces and creaky backs. Every night, my poor alphas are scrunched together in the nest. There's a beauty to that, of course, but not if it means they're uncomfortable.

What the hell kind of omega am I if I can't even make a proper nest for us?

Let alone a nest good enough for our pup .

"Omega," Baxter rumbles. "Use your words."

Maybe I could move some of the couch cushions upstairs. Maybe ask someone to sacrifice their personal mattress—we have six bedrooms, after all, and it's not as if I've been letting anyone sleep on their own lately. Fuck the roster , my inner omega declared as soon as I found out I was pregnant. We need full pack cuddles every goddamn night .

"Riley," Marcus says softly, "scooch back a bit."

She frowns but doesn't argue, putting some space between us. I hold back a whine.

"You're okay, little one," Baxter purrs. "Deep breaths."

Deep breaths ? It's not as if I'm panicking. Am I?

"I'll get the bucket," Thorn says.

Behind me, Marcus nods, rubbing my back. That's when it clicks.

"I'm not gonna be sick," I assure them. "And if I was , I'd at least have the courtesy to go to the bathroom."

"Better safe than sorry," Riley says.

Yawning, Red sits up, stretching his arms over his head. Marcus ducks to avoid him.

"Okay," Baxter says, noting my pinched expression. "If it's not morning sickness, then what's got you so unsettled?"

Something stops me from answering. I mean, I'm the one who insisted all my alphas share the one mattress. I have no right to complain just because it's getting a little cramped.

"Omega," Thorn warns, putting the bucket down.

Baxter flattens his palm over my stomach. It's as if the tiny life inside of me flickers—only two months old, but somehow aware of their father's touch.

And suddenly everything seems simple.

"They're okay," I say, smiling up at him. "Honestly, I … I was just thinking about the nest."

Red straightens. "Need me to get you more pillows? Or, wait—" He grabs a pillow right from under Riley's head. "You need us to re- scent the pillows."

"Alpha," I laugh, seeing Riley's head drop. "You're gonna give her whiplash!"

"Oh." He looks sheepishly at his packmate. "Sorry, Riles."

She snatches the pillow back.

"I think I see the problem," Baxter rumbles. "Your omega wants to build a bigger nest for us, doesn't she?"

I blush. Behind me, Marcus and Riley coo with adoration, making me blush harder. Red whistles lowly.

"Are you actually hard right now?" Riley sighs.

"That was hot," he answers without shame.

I dare to peek out from Baxter's chest. "Nesting is hot?"

"Uh, my omega —scratch that—my pregnant omega, nesting? Fuck yeah that's hot."

No-one argues. If anything, more arousal seems to fog up the room.

"Alright, alright," Marcus laughs tautly. "What're we feeling for breakfast?"

Everyone disperses—Thorn, who helps me tidy up the nest; Riley, who helps me choose a weather-appropriate outfit; Baxter, who kisses my cheek and leaves to answer some emails; and Marcus and Red, who bicker fondly about how not to ruin scrambled eggs as they traipse downstairs.

Only once they're out of earshot does Riley cast Thorn a look. "Reckon you'll go back to training him today?"

I stiffen at the question. There's a good reason she's asking it in front of me—knowing I'll temper Thorn's response.

Cautiously, he says, "He wants to learn."

"The last time he ‘learned', you nearly broke his nose."

The mental image alone—Red trudging into the kitchen with a black eye and bloody lip—makes me growl. No matter that it only took a couple days to heal, I was still furious. Banned sparring for the whole week.

Something about seeing my alphas hurt, especially right now, warps my heart.

"Easy, omega." Thorn smirks. "Don't forget—the last time Red took lessons from Marcus , he almost lost a finger. No-one's stopping him from cooking, though."

"That's different," I say.

"Oh?"

"I can supervise." God knows none of them have let me step foot out to the gym in weeks—apparently, even watching someone else's workout is risky for the pup—but the kitchen is still fair game.

"Well, then." Riley hands me a t-shirt to put over my shorts. "Guess we better get you downstairs." She grins. "To supervise."

The three of us head down. Thorn slips away to change into his workout gear while Riley helps me onto a barstool. Scrambled eggs are in full effect, as Marcus hovers over Red's shoulder, correcting his whisking technique. I watch with interest, taking mental notes myself, until he pours the mixture onto the frying pan.

Smoke wafts up from the pan. With it, a hot, salty, eggy scent.

Oh, no.

Stomach lurching, I jump off the barstool, darting across the room.

The bathroom door opens exactly as I approach, Thorn standing there with a toothbrush in his mouth. He takes just one look at me before standing aside.

I drop to my knees in front of the toilet bowl with an awful retch. There are hands on me in an instant, collecting my hair, rubbing between my shoulder blades, as I relinquish yesterday's dinner. And lunch. And everything else.

Ah, yes. Trimester one at its finest.