Chapter Fifty-Four

Thorn

And … send.

I take a breath. Those files should be more than enough to satisfy the client, or they damn well better be—I've been camped out in the shed for five hours, away from my omega, to get the job done.

That's the last one , I tell myself. Eve is far along enough now that I need to be close to her at all times.

The sun is starting to set as I make my way back into the den. Eve will be grumpy with me for not coming in sooner to eat. I smile to myself. Guess I'll have to make it up to her in bed tonight.

The first person I see is Red, bent over the oven. Probably not the best time to startle him. He doesn't even notice me slip through the hallway.

Marcus, however, does —nearly crashing into me on his way down the stairs.

"Woah—sorry." He seems out of breath, a nervous flicker in his eye that instantly puts me on guard.

I ask, "What happened?"

"It's nothing." He shakes his head. "Sorry. I gotta—I have work to do."

It's as if all the neurotic energy he's been storing up this week is finally starting to spill out. Not great news, but as long as he's getting it far away from my omega, I'm sure it'll resolve itself. Hopefully he finds Red in the kitchen—they've been pretty good at getting each other calm. Or, failing that, getting each other off.

God, my mind really is in the gutter.

I head upstairs, wading through Marcus's pungent trail, when Baxter emerges from the nesting room. Seeing me, he gestures to the nursery.

Alarm bells start ringing. Did something happen? Is Eve sick? Hurt?

We slip into the nursery. Everything is just about set up. The furniture is all thanks to Riley. The colour scheme—pastel greens and creamy whites—can be attributed to Red. As for the rest of it, the heart of it—pillows and blankets and homey Maddox scents … that's all our omega.

"Right." Baxter closes the door. "It's possible I've backed myself into a corner."

That's not like him. "Explain."

"I told Eve to follow her instincts." He runs a hand through his hair. "For the birth."

"And?"

"Her instincts are telling her to have a den birth."

Air freezes in my lungs. I feel the chill from deep inside of me. A den birth … after everything Marcus said about complications, reminding us of the delicate position Eve is in, it's hard to even imagine taking that risk.

No wonder he scampered off. Poor guy probably needed a minute to freak out in private.

"How does she seem?" I demand. "Scared?"

Baxter shakes his head. "Determined."

Normally, that answer would make my inner alpha preen. But determined means Baxter is right: she's listening to her instincts. And this is what they're telling her.

"I told her I trusted her omega," Baxter says, increasingly agitated. "I do trust her omega. But even in a perfect delivery, there's so much to consider. Variables we're not equipped for."

"Could we be?"

Baxter eyes me warily. "You'd consider it?"

"I consider what you tell me to consider." Then, though it makes my blood curdle to go on, I add, "You wouldn't be getting this worked if it wasn't at least a possibility."

"Worked up," he grunts.

"Worked up is good. Means you're taking our omega seriously."

The room goes quiet, giving me a chance to analyze our options. Respecting Eve's wishes would mean reinforcing her inner omega—something she needs from us, now more than ever before, as she becomes a mother.

On the other hand, Baxter is right—Marcus is the only one among us with any practical knowledge of childbirth. If there was an emergency, it would take thirty minutes for an ambulance to arrive. Another thirty minutes to get her to the nearest hospital.

My inner alpha is torn. He trusts Eve's omega implicitly, but also refuses to put her at any additional risk.

"Okay," Baxter says at last. "You're right. We could, theoretically, equip the den for the birth. Not just the natural remedy bullshit—actual equipment. Monitors. Medicine. Hell, we could even hire a couple midwives."

There's our head alpha . No matter the situation, he takes our panic and turns it into a plan. I fold my arms, nodding along.

"Basically set up a private delivery suite," I acknowledge.

"Everything they'd have in the hospital."

I angle my head. "Except all the hospital personnel."

"That's the whole reason Eve wanted a den birth in the first place. She's not comfortable with the idea of being surrounded by strangers. Not to mention being away from her nest."

It's more than that , I realize as he speaks. Sure, she's shy, but it's not herself she's protecting. It's got to be about the pup—bringing them into the world in a familiar environment, where she knows they'll be safe, surrounded by alphas who love them more than anything.

In just five minutes of consideration, my inner alpha is already starting to appreciate her logic.

"Frankly," Baxter says, "it's ridiculous to have all these funds and not use them. Especially on the things that matter."

I risk the faintest smile. "And the den birth matters."

He hesitates, letting himself sit with the gravity of his response: "Yes. It matters to Eve."

There's no need for him to finish the thought. I already know.

What matters to Eve … is all that matters.