Chapter Fifty-Two

Riley

Things start to get complicated when Eve's monthly appointments become two- or three-monthly appointments.

This is just the nature of her third trimester. The pup is growing faster than ever, which means Eve is growing faster than ever. If we want a healthy delivery, we need to be keeping a close eye on things.

"I can do it," Eve insists, though the point is somewhat less convincing in that raspy voice. Another random asthma attack come and gone.

"You can, but you won't," Baxter growls. "A trip a month was hard enough. Three trips is downright unreasonable."

"We have a case," Marcus offers. "Pregnant omegas aren't meant to be away from their den when they're this far along. The stress isn't good for the pup."

It takes exactly one phone call to our lawyers before the court revises their agreement: Pack Maddox will stick to one-monthly check-ups in the city, and redirect additional appointments to St Mercy's. Marcus is dead-on—they'll agree to anything to reduce ‘stress on the pup'.

Both Doctor Perez and Doctor Ascott tell us not to worry. Some of Eve's conditions are bound to flare up at this later stage, particularly her asthma, but as long as we keep an eye out—monitor her blood pressure, her breathing, her rest—everything will be fine.

They seem confident. Marcus seems … well, as confident as Marcus can be. I'll do my best to follow suit.

Eve waddles into the office, looking more radiant than ever in her new maternity dress. She huffs like she's out of breath. "Alphas?"

I rise, hurrying over. "Hey, pretty girl. Want to sit?"

"Actually, it's dinner time."

Red cocks a brow. "Already?" It's barely six.

"I was—" Eve stops herself, blushing, "—the pup was hungry."

"Ah." I beam, putting my hand on her stomach. Little feet flutter beneath me. "They've been working out pretty hard in there, huh?"

"You have no idea."

"Poor omega," I can't help but coo, catching her lips in a quick kiss. "Let's get you and the pup lots to eat. That'll calm them down."

"What?" Red springs up. "But I like it when they're all bumpy." He grins, getting a feel for himself.

Eve glares. "You'll like it a lot less when they're keeping me up all night."

Red just grins wider. "Trust me, baby, things will be nice and calm in there by the time I'm done with you."

She turns bright red. I have to admit—the thought is enough to get me all hot and bothered, too.

It takes Eve's stomach audibly growling for me to snap out of it, the three of us migrating to the dining room. I'm surprised to see the table is set—we haven't been much for formal sit-down dinners since Lucille left.

Marcus blusters out of the kitchen, holding massive serving plates in either hand. "Oh good!" he says. "You're both here."

He gets me to fill up all the water glasses and puts Red on dressing duty.

"Hey," Eve complains, "when I asked to help, you told me everything was done."

"Oh." Marcus smiles sheepishly. "I lied."

She pouts. "I'm not an invalid, you know."

"Of course not." He sweeps back in with some sides, dropping a kiss on her cheek. "But you are busy."

"Busy with what! I've been nesting in the kitchen for over an hour."

I laugh, filling up a water jug. "And that's not busy ?"

"It is," Marcus agrees before Eve can answer. "But I actually meant busy growing an entire pup."

"Ah." I nod soberly. "That."

Eve clucks her tongue, but I catch her blush, pride creeping all the way up to her ears.

We're getting closer now. A little less than two months to go before this part of Maddox Pack's journey is over.

Before our family begins earnest.

I wonder if Marcus senses this too—it's becoming clearer and clearer the formal dinner-time was his idea—when he asks Red to get Baxter and Thorn.

I eye him suspiciously. What's all this about, Marc?

Sure enough, we're hardly five minutes into our big fancy pack dinner—roast chicken, potatoes, and two different types of salad—before my packmate stands to get everyone's attention.

Everyone except for Red puts their cutlery down. "No, no—" Marcus waves his hand, "—please, keep eating. I thought it might actually be best if you guys eat while I talk."

"Don't need to tell me twice," Red says around a mouthful of potatoes.

Reluctantly, I go back to my meal, my eyes widening when I see Marcus pull out a color-coded binder from under the table.

"Woah," I say in awe, "someone's been doing their homework."

"It's not homework," he says proudly, "it's brainstorming! I figured, what with Eve's due date only a couple months out, it was about time we locked in a birth plan."

Seated next to Eve on the opposite side of the table, Baxter nods appreciatively. "Thanks for taking the initiative."

"Big initiative," Thorn adds, scrutinizing the sheer bulk of that binder.

"I was under the impression we wouldn't need to consider these things until Eve's eighth month," Baxter says. He squeezes Eve's thigh under the table. "But in truth, I wouldn't have known where to start. So let's hear it. What's on the cards?"

Marcus takes a breath. He opens up to the second page of the binder before his eyes flick up, checking Eve's expression. She's been quiet so far, but her earlier appetite must have suddenly decreased, as she pokes the chicken around her plate.

Softly, Baxter purrs to get her attention. "Omega. Is something wrong?"

"No," she says. "Sorry. Guess I'm just s–shocked. Like you said—I didn't think we needed to think about this for a few more weeks." She looks at Marcus. "But I'm grateful you did. And I want to know what to do. Or, um, expect."

Her confession makes me realize how uptight I've gotten, too. The second Marcus said the words ‘birth plan', I locked up in my seat.

"Okay." Marcus takes a breath. "Right off the bat, I'd like to recommend a hospital birth."

For some reason my inner alpha cringes at the thought. I know, medically, it's our safest route, but the hospital … not exactly the warmest environment, or the most secure.

Red speaks up, "Why bother? We have a nurse right here at the den."

"I'm flattered, but there are some things I might not be able to handle on my own. It's entirely possible we'll face complications."

"Complications?" Thorn presses.

Marcus consults his binder. "Given the POTS, asthma, and osteoporosis, most doctors would want to monitor for premature labor, respiratory issues … maybe even a C-section."

It's like a drop in the room—Eve's sudden dread dragging all of us down, our mating bonds taut with pressure.

"It's alright, little one," Baxter rumbles "That's why Marcus is helping us make a plan now. So we're ready for anything."

Eve swallows. "As long as the pup is okay."

Marcus waits a while before he continues. None of us can focus, anyway—not until Baxter coaxes Eve to take another bite of dinner, and Thorn scents her under the table, evening out those stressed pheromones.

"On that note," Marcus says, "I want us out of the den as soon as Eve's contractions are ten minutes apart. Normally we'd wait for five minutes, but considering it's a half-hour drive to St Mercy's, I'd rather not risk it."

"You think things will progress that quickly?" Baxter asks.

"I doubt it. This is our first pup, which means in all likelihood it'll be a long, drawn-out process." He shrugs. "Just being cautious."

In case of emergency, I fill in the blank, grateful he knows better than to say as much in front of Eve.

He goes on, "We'll need a few things sorted—preferably within the next couple weeks. A go-bag, for starters. Comfy clothes, nesting stuff, toiletries, any other essentials." He casts his eye to me. "Riley, I thought maybe you could handle that?"

My inner alpha preens. "Absolutely."

"Great. Also, I was thinking maybe a playlist? Something ambient, low-key. Studies have shown music really helps regulate stress—even pain."

"I call it," Red blurts out.

Marcus gives him a wary expression. "Actually, I was thinking Riley could handle that part, too."

Red scowls. "Then what am I doing in this scenario, exactly?"

"Well …" Marcus reviews his binder. "I've put you down for food prep. Hospital meals are not the most comforting."

This makes my hotheaded packmate happy, practically purring in his seat.

One by one, Marcus allocates jobs. We eat, consider, and nod along, taking his instructions in stride. There are no further objections. Clearly, Marcus has done his homework, and he's in his element—looking out for Eve, and the pup, as we approach the big day, all the while making sure everyone has a part to play.

Only Eve is left empty-handed. Literally. I take her dirty dish right out of her hands and insist she rests while the rest of us get to cleaning up.

You've done enough, I want to tell her, over and over, until the message sinks in. Now, it's our turn.