Chapter Fifty-Nine

Riley

I sleep with my phone directly under my pillow, not wanting the alarm to wake anyone else up.

It was a late night, round after round of slow and sensual pack sex. No alpha left unaccounted for, and Eve's orgasm count somewhere in the double digits. If there were any false contractions left to speak of, she was too relaxed, or exhausted, to even notice.

There's a lot to get done today—tying up loose ends with my clients, packing mine and Eve's bags for tomorrow's appointment in the city, and hopefully squeezing in a good workout.

Though my sex-weary muscles protest the very thought.

I stand out of the nest, stretching my naked arms—naked everything—over my head. As quietly as I can, I pluck my shirt and shorts off the floor. There's another job to tick off the list: laundry .

I'm about to slip out of the room when it catches my attention—a musky scent. Not the usual heady, sweaty afterglow following a long night's fuck, but something … sour.

Frowning, I scan my packmates' bodies, then Eve's. No-one looks hurt. Eve's a little flushed, but that's normal enough.

Isn't it? I shake Marcus's shoulder, needing a second opinion. He blearily wakes. "Riles?"

"Something's weird," I whisper, surprised by how quickly my alpha has taken the reins. "Can you check on Eve?"

The conversation rouses Thorn. Is he ever actually asleep ? He narrows his gaze, instinctively curling tighter around Eve.

Cautiously, Marcus reaches over him to feel Eve's forehead. She grumbles in her sleep. His expression sharpens, fully awake now. "Baxter," he says.

Our head alpha's eyes snap open. Eve is spooned against his chest, Thorn wrapped around her front, but they both draw away to give Marcus space to work. Marcus lifts Eve's wrist, measuring her pulse, his blue eyes storming over.

No-one speaks, not even to wake our omega.

Marcus feels around the back of her neck. Finally, she stirs, blinking groggily up at him. "Alpha?"

"Hey." He strokes her jaw. "How are you feeling, princess?"

"Um … good." Her brow furrows. "But taking a break from knots right now, if that's okay."

Suddenly realizing the position he's in—propping her head up like they're about to kiss—Marcus blushes. "Oh. No, I know. I was just checking something."

"You're hot," Thorn remarks sternly.

Eve turns even pinker. "Alpha?"

"He means feverish," Marcus explains, making all of us bristle. "Just a little."

"Medicine," I blurt out. "I'll grab it."

Marcus shoots me an appreciative glance as I hurry into the ensuite, digging through Eve's medicine draw. Surely, with all the aches and pains she's been getting, someone must've thought to stash some Tylenol in here.

"Got it," I announce.

Baxter has propped Eve up by the time I return with the pills and a glass of water. Even Red is awake now, foggily processing the situation.

Eve takes the medicine without complaint. She has her hand on her stomach the way she always does when she's worrying—no doubt more for the pup than for herself—but the fear doesn't show on her face. If anything, she just looks vaguely stunned, like she hasn't quite woken up yet.

"Any nausea?" Marcus asks. "Pain?"

She considers. "A little sore, I guess."

"Where?" Baxter demands. He glances down at her exposed body—breasts, stomach, pussy, and thighs all on heavenly display. "Oh. Right."

"We were too rough," Thorn growls.

"No," Eve insists. "It's not that. It's the, you know …" She rubs her stomach again.

Marcus's eyes widen. "False contractions?"

She nods sheepishly.

"Is that bad?" Red cuts in. "'Cause the face you're making—seems like it's bad."

He's not wrong, but for god's sake, the last thing Eve needs to hear is that something is wrong with her or the pup. If she were more alert, she'd probably be spiraling into panic.

"It'll be fine," Marcus says. "We'll let the medicine kick in, keep Eve resting, let everything sort itself out."

He smiles so convincingly, so tenderly, that I'm almost convinced.

***

It's a low-grade fever, Marcus keeps assuring us.

But a low-grade fever that won't seem to go away.

Every six hours, Eve takes more Tylenol, drifting in and out of sleep with a cold flannel on her head. Marcus rambles on—something about this being a common issue for omegas in their third trimester—but he gets less persuasive the more he talks.

He pulls us aside while Eve rests. "Tomorrow's appointment," he murmurs, "we have to postpone it."

My jaw hardens. "The judge won't like that."

"She'll get over it," Thorn growls.

He's got a point, of course—what some city court judge feels about Eve's condition doesn't mean jack shit right now—but it's not good that we're all losing our heads over this.

"I'll call our lawyers," Baxter mutters.

Eve's quiet whimpers from the nesting room summon the rest of us back in. Something must've woken her up, and—judging by the way her muscles are tightening, curling over her stomach—I can guess what.

"Should I time it?" Red says anxiously, lying with her.

Marcus deliberates, brow drawn. Eve answers for him, "Please don't. It kind of freaks me out."

I take her hand. "Sorry, pretty girl. We're a little over-eager, huh?"

She smiles through a grimace. "Just a little."

The contraction passes, Eve's hand in mind, squeezing me as it peaks. She takes a moment to catch her breath, already falling asleep again.

In my peripheral vision, I note Thorn putting his phone away.

***

I don't trust myself in Eve's nest right now. I get the sense she's picking up on my nervous energy, and terrified it'll just make her feel worse. I'll leave her treatment to the professions: Thorn, Baxter, and Marcus. At least I can make myself of some use in the kitchen.

"Riley," Red snaps, "the salt?"

I must've zoned out. I pass it over to him, watching warily as he pours a very generous serving into the pot. "Woah. Isn't that a little overboard?"

"Eve's electrolytes are way out of whack," he answers gruffly, "which means she's low on sodium." He glances across at me. "Salt is sodium."

I guess even a mild fever will make a person sweat—a pregnant person especially. "Wow," I say, "you've gotten pretty good at this."

"Not as good as Marc. But at least I remember the shit he's told me."

I nod, sweeping up the pumpkin skins. When Red asserted he was going to make soup, I almost laughed, but I see now how seriously he's taking this. And how far he's come.

"It's perfect," I tell him, "she'll love it."

It suddenly makes sense to me why he was also prepared to spend some time away from the nesting room. Neither of us are quite ready to face Eve's fever up close and personal, but doing this—supporting her, nourishing her—from a safe distance is enough to placate our inner alphas. For now.

Our ears perk up as Baxter descends the stairs. "Smells good," he says.

"How's Eve?" I demand.

"Better. No false contractions in the last couple hours. Plus—" he smiles encouragingly, "she's hungry."

I can practically hear Red's heart burst. "It'll be ready soon. Give me ten—no, five. Give me five."

"And the appointment?" I ask before he can slip away again.

Baxter waves his hand. "Rescheduled. We'll head over first thing next week." He regards me more closely. "You doing okay? Seem a little pent up."

"Yeah. I'm good." Sort of.

"I could ask Thorn to come down—maybe train with you for a little while."

The very thought makes my blood run cold. I'm sure Thorn would do it, if Baxter insisted, but he'd spend the entire session resenting me for taking him away from Eve. A resentful Thorn makes for a very dangerous sparring partner.

"I'll be fine," I assure him. "Maybe I'll take a cold shower before I head upstairs." That must be what he's sensing—my burnt, swirling pheromones. I can't spread that stuff around Eve right now.

Baxter nods. "Whatever works."

He leaves me and Red to it, Red now working overtime to get the soup finished. My instinct is to go to him, to tell him to slow down—it's okay if things take just a bit longer. But then I realize that I'm the one who's actually craving that support, and I pull back.

For the first time in six years, I feel an overwhelming urge to call my parents.

Maybe they'd know what to do.