Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Noble

W ho knows what the hell I'm doing, because I don't. There's just something about Brooklyn that draws me to her.

The whole point of coming to New York was to treat her like any other job, but that flew out the window the first time she smiled at me in the hall.

I'd seen her before, but she hadn't spotted me.

I'll never forget the moment. She had Libby on one hip and more bags of groceries than I've ever seen one person carry on the other arm.

She still lit up and waved.

I knew right then I was fucked.

Well, if not right that second, I definitely caught on when I scented her as I helped her with her ridiculous number of bags.

We stand just outside of Libby's door as I give Brooklyn a squeeze. She runs her fingers over my lower back, and I ache to lift her and hold her to my chest.

Maybe gently push her back to the wall, so I could brush my lips over hers.

It's taken a lot of subtle hints to even get myself to where we are now.

Pushing too hard will get me nowhere.

She's skittish, and for good reason.

"Do you want to finish the movie, or are you ready to call it a night?" I ask, giving her back a final pat.

Her face rolls around my shirt, and she finally nods. "I'm not ready for tonight to end just yet."

I grin, bending down and kissing the top of her head, like a total fucking weirdo.

When did I become the type to give forehead or hair kisses?

I'm clearly totally fucking done for.

It doesn't take long for Brooklyn to fall asleep against my shoulder. Her dark eyelashes fan over her cheeks, and she's quite stunning, even as she softly snores.

I'll bet she is tired.

Pregnancy can't be easy, and managing that with a toddler is an entirely different beast.

Her piece-of-shit ex deserves everything he's got coming his way.

Merely thinking about him causes a low growl to rattle in my chest.

He actually believed he'd be able to hire me.

I'm not sure which one of my former clients misrepresented my services, but they should have known better.

They don't call me "the Cleaner" for nothing. My jobs are so efficient they pass for natural causes, accidents, suicide, or, in some cases, homicides by a rival faction, but they all have one thing in common. They'll never be traced back to the person who hired me.

My tech skills are unmatched, making it easy enough to clean my existence right out of the life of whoever hired me. That might be half of why I'm so efficient, but the other side is my methodical practices when following through with a kill contract.

Only, I don't take jobs that involve women, and under no circumstances have I ever given any indication that I would take on a project that had a kid as one of the targets.

Avan Barrett didn't just get told flat-out fuck no. He got me interested in what kind of piece of shit would hire someone to kill his own child and her mother.

Let alone a woman pregnant with his second child.

No.

I couldn't let that stand.

It's what brought me to the city.

Brooklyn isn't the most aware of her surroundings, considering I watched her on and off for nearly two weeks prior to moving into her building.

No one who knows me professionally would consider me a hero, but I sure as fuck left California to come nearly three-thousand miles just to make sure no one else took the contract Avan was offering.

I've never had a problem keeping my nose out of other people's business…until it clicked that, since I didn't take the hit, someone else might.

Only one newbie bottom-feeder has been stupid enough so far, and he met his demise in an alleyway only a few blocks away. It was one of the more satisfying moments of my life when he straight-up pissed himself when he realized who was following him.

I've considered taking the contract since then, just so it would no longer be active, but I've got a reputation to uphold.

I don't want that shit anywhere near my resume. So, I've perfectly positioned myself to take out anyone who might be inclined to sully their soul to that level.

I've never claimed to be anything but the monster I know I am, but even that persona has limits. And those hard stops come at killing innocent women and children because the man in question now wants to get married without the added complication of a child born out of wedlock.

Little does he know, he's got a second on the way, but I can't blame Brooklyn for keeping that to herself.

Her instincts were spot on.

What the 1800s level of hell is that bullshit, anyway?

I get the logic behind it. If he's marrying for an alliance with another powerful family, then Brooklyn and Libby are a complication some families would want no part of.

In that case, he should have kept his dick in his pants.

I blink awake, feeling like I'm burning alive. It doesn't take long to realize that's not me.

It's Brooklyn.

She's snuggled up to my side with her face on my chest and her arm tossed over my middle. The home screen is up on the TV, providing just enough light that I can clearly see her face.

Her cheeks are pink, almost like when someone is sick or overheating.

I bring my fingers up, brushing them over her skin.

That's not a good sign.

Brooklyn moans, jolting in her sleep.

I frown even harder.

Fuck me.

She smells ridiculously sweet, almost like she's on the verge of going into heat. However, I'm almost positive that heats stop once conception occurs.

"Brooklyn," I murmur, studying her lips as they push together in her sleep. She's got her legs curled behind her on the cushion, and her feet twitch. "You doing okay down there?" My thumb traces her jaw, and the urge to brush it over her plush bottom lip is strong.

She grunts, snuggling closer. It's cute as fuck, but the closer she gets, the more obvious it is that she's burning up.

"Hey, Mama," I try again. "Wake up for me, pretty girl."

Her head shakes as her fingers dig into my side. She groans something that I can't make out.

I tilt my head down, brushing my lips over her forehead.

It wasn't my mind playing tricks on me.

She's burning up.

Maybe I should carry her in and help her take a cold shower?

Fuck.

I don't even know if fever reducers are safe to take during pregnancy.

It's not like I can take her to urgent care or a hospital. Not unless we wake up Libby and bring her with us.

That sends me down a whole different spiral of how she's supposed to manage everything alone while she's sick.

Okay, so the first thing I should do is carry her to bed. Then I'll look for a thermometer and do a quick internet search to determine if she needs a hospital.

I scoop her up like a bride, with only a little maneuvering, and stride toward her bedroom, like I have the right.

Jesus Christ.

This could be bad.

I've already invaded her room once—the night I put her and Libby down to sleep in there before I left.

I very nearly put Libby in her own room, but I was concerned Brooklyn would be terrified if she woke up and didn't immediately spot her daughter.

As I gently nudge the door open with my foot, Brooklyn rubs her face against my T-shirt.

"Whoa," she whispers, clutching at my back since her arm ended up tucked under mine. "Noble?"

"I've got you," I assure her. "You're running a fever. Do you have a thermometer?"

"I'm okay," she mumbles, shaking her head. "I think so, anyway. I just don't feel great."

I hold her weight with one forearm as I grab her comforter, tugging it back, then set her onto the mattress. "Here you go. Get settled in. Now, about that thermometer…"

She immediately rolls onto her side, pulling her legs up until she's nearly in the fetal position. "It's not dangerous."

"The fever?" I brush her sweaty hair back from her face.

"Yeah. It's not at a level to worry about."

"I'd still feel better if I checked it. I need to know where we stand." My thumb teases over her cheek. "Is it in the bathroom?"

"Medicine cabinet. Second shelf." Her eyes close, and I head to grab that.

Brooklyn lets me take her temperature, but only after some nonsensical mumbling and complaining.

By the time it beeps, it looks like she's sleeping. I gently pull the thermometer free and frown when it reads 104.3.

A beta or alpha would be in bad shape with a temperature that high.

"What is it?" she asks without opening her eyes. I fill her in, and she swipes a hand through the air. "That's not bad at all for an omega."

"It doesn't seem great to me," I mutter, ripping the cover off the device and tossing it in the trash before setting the thermometer down on the end table.

"Sorry for being a crappy date," she says sleepily.

"None of that." I move to kiss her forehead. "I'm going to check on Libby. I'm not leaving while you're sick."

"Lennox will probably be home in a few hours."

I grunt. "Still not leaving until she's here."

Libby is fine. She sleeps with her bum up in the air and her arm wrapped around her bear.

I still check her for a fever.

She's not feverish.

I walk toward the living room, ripping my phone from my pocket.

It's just after eleven since, apparently, we fell asleep early as fuck.

A couple of quick internet searches give me such contradictory information that I start to panic.

Pulling up one of my moms, my thumb hovers over the call button, but if I go that route, my entire family will know by lunchtime tomorrow.

I try my sister instead. She's the oldest of the girls in my family.

America answers with a huff. "What do you want, Deveraux?"

An involuntary shiver runs down my spine.

Goddamn.

When did my little sister start sounding like my moms?

"How are the kids, America ?" I ask with a petulant tone to my voice.

Our parents named us for optimal misery when growing up.

I'm fully aware she goes by "Erica" these days, but if she wants to bust out my first name, I'm happy to do the same.

"Finally asleep. What's up?"

"I need information. Is a one-hundred-and-four fever dangerous for an omega?"

"What?" she squeaks, sounding much more interested all of a sudden.

"Does it change things if she's pregnant? Does that make it better or worse?"

"Holy fucking shit. You knocked someone up?" America gasps.

"The baby is not mine," I clarify. "Although, I'm pretty sure the omega is."

"Oh. My. God." She fully punctuates each word. "Okay, that's actually the sweetest thing I've ever heard."

"Is it safe or not?" I growl.

I'm going to need to blackmail her hardcore if I don't want this information making the rounds tomorrow.

"She's not in heat if she's pregnant," my sister says, humming. "Okay, so, is she sick?"

"She seemed fine while we watched a movie, but we both fell asleep, and she woke up feverish."

"Is she unbonded?"

"Yes."

"Damn," she says. "Pregnant omegas need alpha pheromones. It's a whole thing. It's why nature pushes us to nest so often while we're pregnant. Omegas naturally want to fill that nest full of potent alphas."

My mind races. Brooklyn hasn't had access to alpha pheromones at all throughout her pregnancy. At least, not that I've seen.

And I've watched her a lot.

"I'm guessing the two of you are a scent match?" my sister asks.

"More than that," I grumble, swiping a hand over my face. "She smells like…" I sigh, unsure how to even describe what Brooklyn smells like to me. "Like nothing I've ever scented. It's an electric smell, and when she's close by, I physically ache to touch her."

"A soul match, like the moms." She references our moms, but I have no idea what that means. "It's one step above a scent match, and it's seriously rare. Holy shit, Deveraux. They're going to freak out. They've always sworn soul matches exist, but none of us found ours."

My heart races.

I vaguely remember them talking about something like that, but as a teenager, I did my best to ignore how open my parents' pack was about how much they loved each other.

"You're not going to say a word to any of them until I'm ready to bring it up," I growl.

"Jesus, you're such a cranky asshole." America chuckles. "Whatever. Back to your omega. So, if she doesn't have any bonds, has she been experiencing symptoms of pheromone sickness? Wait, I don't know if that's the medical term?—"

"What is that?" I start to pace across the living room floor.

"It's like being touch starved, but it's more dangerous during pregnancy. Basically, it's when female omegas suffer from not having alpha pheromones. There was an article about it somewhere recently. I don't know if it's a new thing, but it makes them lethargic, anxious, and it can even cause physical aches and pains."

"So, do I need to take her to the hospital?" My eyes fly to Libby's door.

Maybe Lennox could watch her niece while I take care of Brooklyn.

"Probably not." America chuckles. "God, it's weird hearing you lose your shit. Okay, so snuggle up next to her and see if it helps. If it does, then…" She snorts. "I'm actually not finishing that sentence. Call Theo if you need further instructions on how alphas and omegas fit together."

Theodore is my only brother, and I frown like an old man as I catch her meaning.

"Fuck's sake, America," I mutter.

"Exactly. Love you, bye." With that, she disconnects.

I pull the phone away from my ear.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

I kneel on the edge of the bed, giving Brooklyn's rump a shove until she moves closer to the middle. It seems much less invasive to situate myself on the edge of the mattress than it does to crawl up the middle.

I toe off my boots, kicking them out of the way as I pump myself up to lie down next to her.

This is where all the stereotypes about alphas come from. They say we're pushy fucks when it comes to taking care of an omega, and it's clear those rumors were not exaggerating.

My instincts will not let me relax.

Not until I do everything possible to help her feel better.

Christ.

She's going to wake up in the morning and politely ask me what the fuck I think I'm doing here.

I still climb onto the bed at her side, because I'm apparently nothing if not committed to being a pushy creep.

My hand slides over my face as I curse at the ceiling.

I'm so incredibly fucked.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I prepare for a long night.

It doesn't take five minutes for the little omega to roll to face me. She wiggles in her sleep, scooting closer. I pull my arm up, tossing it on the pillow above her head.

The migration continues until she's basically sleeping with her face plastered to my chest. She smells so sweet, it's nearly impossible to keep from tugging her until she's completely on top of me.

Then again, I don't know if it's safe for her to put weight on the baby belly. I settle for pulling my arm off the pillow and resting my hand on her hip.

"Oh, you didn't leave," she mumbles, like she's still half asleep. "Wow, you smell really good. Just stay right there, okay?"

My eyebrows rise as I look down at her long lashes fanning over her cheeks. "I'm not going anywhere, Mama."

So. Incredibly. Fucked.