Chapter Five

Baxter

That tiny little image on the screen is enough to erase every frustration, every concern, every doubt. Suddenly I don't care that we're hours away from the den.

All I care about is this.

I squeeze Eve's hand as the doctor, a mature alpha introduced to us as Doctor Perez, speaks. "That's a healthy two-month pup right there," he assures us.

My eyes go to Marcus for confirmation. He beams, blinking back tears. "Yup. Healthy, perfect little pup."

The room is practically choked with joy, my packmates' pheromones blooming out. Riley coos at the screen, congratulating Eve on growing such a cute pup. Eve laughs.

"I don't know if they're ‘cute' yet, alpha."

Red gasps, kneeling down next to her stomach. "Don't listen to Mama, little guy. You're cute as hell."

Hearing this, I cock my head. "When will we know the sex?"

"Normally around the five-month mark," the doctor says. "Then, closer to delivery, I can tell you the secondary gender. Assuming you want to know, of course."

Personally, I'd love to know what to expect—any information I can get about our pup is valuable—but I know where the real decision lies. And, judging on Eve's furrowed brow, she's not sold on the idea.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," I say.

The doctor is quiet for a moment, feeling around Eve's stomach with his wand, mapping out the shape of our pup.

"There's the umbilical cord," he says, pointing to the screen.

"Already?" Riley seems surprised.

"Mm-hm," Marcus says, also pointing. "And eyes! Eyelids starting to form right over here."

Red laughs. "That's crazy. Our kid has eyes ."

My gaze returns to Eve, but she's as transfixed as the others, her face illuminated by the faint blue light of the screen.

"Heartbeat sounds fast," Thorn notes, a hand on Eve's shoulder. "That's normal?"

"Very normal," the doctor confirms. "Healthy, in fact."

"And Eve's symptoms," Thorn presses, "the nausea, mood swings, fatigue—what do we do about that?"

Marcus cuts him a wary look. I, too, transfer my focus. A space like this, practically face-to-face with our unborn pup, is bound to bring out the raging alpha inside all of us. But Thorn's has a tendency to become especially … volatile.

"From what your packmate tells me," the doctor says diplomatically, gesturing to Marcus, "you're already doing all you can. Letting her rest, sticking to bland foods, keeping her hydrated—that's all there is to it at this stage."

A soft growl rises in Thorn's throat. Before I can intervene, Eve puts her hand on top of his, looking up at him.

"Alpha," she says softly, "look."

She guides his gaze back to the screen. Nothing has changed—there's still the little pup, just taking shape, plus its little cord, wrapped up nice and snug in Eve's womb—but the simple gesture of drawing his attention makes Thorn soften, like he's seeing the picture with brand-new eyes.

"I take it back," Eve whispers, her eyes glittering. "They are cute."

***

We decide to spend the night at the loft to give Eve time to rest and recover before the drive back. She's had enough excitement (and nausea) for one day.

She nests for a while, getting the bed ready for us, before crashing. Marcus, Red and Riley crash with her, all three of them out cold by nine-thirty. My heart warms at the picture.

Not too long from now, there's going to be a pup in that picture.

I take the opportunity to check my emails, wondering if I should swing by the offices tomorrow morning before we leave, just to check in on Maddox Tech headquarters. It's been a while since they last saw me in person.

I blink free from my thoughts when Thorn places a glass on the coffee table.

I glance up at him. "I see you found the whiskey."

"I didn't realize it was hidden."

Of course he didn't. Nothing is truly hidden to an alpha of Thorn's skillset.

Smiling, I lift my glass and clink it against his. "To two months," I say.

He smirks. "And eight years."

I scoff. "Christ. Eight years?"

"Give or take."

He sits across from me, swirling his drink. So much of the Thorn I met eight years ago resonates in this image—his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp, like he could either fall asleep or lunge to attack at any moment.

But there's plenty that's different, too.

His black eyes flicker. I follow his gaze, looking over at Eve and our packmates sleeping in the nest.

"The doctor seemed happy," I remind him.

Thorn shakes his head. "It's a delicate time. Eighty per cent of miscarriages happen in the first trimester."

Like me, he must've found the statistic online—all Doctor Perez said was to take extra care until we're ‘in the clear'.

"Is that what you're worried about? That she won't make it to the second trimester?" It's not like Thorn to dwell on fear. He's too action-oriented. Always needs a plan.

Thorn's jaw feathers with tension. He sips his whiskey.

That's when it clicks. "You have a job," I say, quietly.

He nearly coughs into his glass. "How did you—?"

"Eight years, remember?"

"Even so," he mutters, "I don't exactly make a point of announcing it."

I shrug, deciding not to mention how I always know when he's on a job: his scent turns ever-so-slightly bitter, tinged with fear, like he's still expecting me to reject him at the drop of the hat. If sharing a drink helps him feel connected, and secure, I'm more than happy to oblige.

"I'm not, by the way," he says, "on a job." I give him a look, and he adds, "Not yet."

"You know the rules, Thorn. So long as you're careful, you don't need my permission to work."

"Things are different now. Eve needs me here."

I quirk a brow. "Have you been asked to go away?"

"Not far. And not for long, but … yes."

"And you're worried that Eve's too vulnerable to be without you."

"It sounds arrogant when you put it like that."

"It's not arrogant. You're Maddox's protector."

"So you think I should turn it down?"

"No," I say, cautiously. "I expect all of our packmates to be here for Eve, in whatever capacity she needs. That also means equal contribution to the pack. For you and Marcus, equal contribution requires you to leave the den for work."

This has always been a basic tenant of being an alpha in Pack Maddox—each of us pays our dues relative to what we earn. Not because I need the assistance, but because I can't allow for any divisions. Even in a hierarchy, we must remain equal, wherever possible.

"Trust your packmates," I tell him, sensing he's waiting for my final call. "Trust me . We can look after Eve while you're gone."

"You don't think her omega will be upset?"

"She'll manage. Truthfully, I think it'll be good for you."

He hesitates. "It has been a while."

My second-in-command is a lot of things, but a house pet he is not. Having an omega means he's more attached to the den, and won't venture off for long stretches like he used to, but it's not in his nature to be cooped up for weeks on end.

And frankly, I don't want him taking all that excess energy out on the pack.

We finish our drinks in silence, intermittently sneaking glances at our sleeping omega. Letting their warm, fuzzy pheromones fill the loft—coaxing us to join them.