36. Uri
36
Uri
“ Y
ou are ridiculous,” my omega growls, glowering at me. She barges into my office, her blue eyes bright with fury, and based on the state of her, I can tell this fury has been building.
Jamie startles at her snap, and I have to bite my inner cheek not to laugh and enrage her further. The door slams shut as she continues striding towards me.
If I was a smart man, I’d immediately drop to my knees and beg for forgiveness.
But knowing my mate the way I do, she wants me to fight with her first before giving in.
“Ridiculous?” I smirk, completely and utterly turned on by her anger. She’s beautiful. Radiant, glowing, ethereal.
She has curls of hair escaping the updo she’s got it in, and the messy look to her blouse shows how much she’s been moving around. Her trousers cling to her legs, and if I can mastermind a way to get her to turn around…
To bend over…
“You’re impossible.” She slams the folder down onto my desk, breathing heavy and angry.
I don’t flinch. I just watch .
“You want me to approve a campaign that breaks every brand guideline that we’ve set since you took over,” she says, slamming her hand on top of the folder. “And you want me to launch it next week ?”
I nod, amusement stirring in my gut. “Yes.”
Her nostrils flare, her eyes narrow into slits. “Are you actually insane?”
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts, then opens once more. Her head cocks to the side, like an adorable puppy, and her scent sweetens. The lavender and chamomile settles, no longer twisted up and burning as her anger seems to be startled into confusion.
She stares at me like I’ve just committed a felony.
Maybe in her mind I have.
Good thing I’d commit a hundred more just to get another look like that.
“You can’t be serious,” she mutters, glancing down at herself. “I’m a mess.”
I lean over the desk, my hand brushing against hers. “You’re glowing. It’s distracting.”
“Don’t lie to me. I’m fat now. Have you seen the state of this?” She yanks her shirt up, showing the beautiful bump that I’m becoming obsessed with.
Her stomach is no longer flat and toned, there’s a small bump. She’s only eleven weeks pregnant, but with her small frame, she’s showing quite early on.
Oscar dragged her to an appointment the moment he noticed, just to make sure that we didn’t have twins. With her being one, he had some statistics proving it was more likely.
Luckily, we don’t.
One tiny healthy bundle of joy growing inside my mate.
“Your bump is showing. I love that.”
She sighs, and tears well up in her eyes. “I’m tired.”
“Oh, baby, come here,” I command. She doesn’t move, the tendrils of hair sticking to her face as she cries. “Little dove, I’m not asking. Come here .”
She startles, but can’t resist the alpha bark. She immediately rushes over to me, and I scoot back so she can sit on my lap. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close to me.
“In terms of the campaign, Paxton and I are positive that it will be worth it. It breaks the usual guidelines, yes, but that’s exactly why it will work. The client’s brand is stagnating, and they’re making this shift. The shock factor plays into the rebrand they’ve asked for.
“It’s bold, disruptive, and memorably—exactly what they need to get traction, get their message out there, and have organic engagement that we can’t drive any other way.”
Emme sighs, curling up into my lap to get more comfortable. She’s usually very strict about not ‘canoodling’ at the office—her words, as offensive as they are considering we created our baby here only a few months ago—so I know that she’s really struggling if she’s so eager to go against it now.
“Fine,” she mutters, twiddling my tie with her fingers. “But if we’re throwing all of the rules out the window, I want final sign-off on copy and visuals. If this thing goes nuclear, I’m not having my name on it unless it’s perfect.”
Pride fills me, and she leans in closer, brushing her lips against the gland on my neck. I growl low, and she purrs softly. The perfect harmony.
She didn’t admit I was right. I knew she wouldn’t. But she is staying on top of it, and making sure she’s in control.
That’s how she agrees—on her terms.
She’s perfect.
“Now, you’re exhausted,” I say.
My grip tightens, just in case she tries to move away. I can’t allow that. Not even a little bit.
“I’ve just had too many late nights and early mornings.” She tries to stifle her yawn, but I hear it anyway. “I’m not staying late tonight.”
“Perfect. We’ll do a date night once we’re home—all five of us.”
“Don’t you mean six?”
I frown, biting back the snarl that wants to rage free. Six ? Who the fuck is the sixth that she wants to invite?
“Six?” The word escapes on a hiss, and I’m unable to hold it in.
Fuck.
Seems I couldn’t hide my anger from her.
But she just giggles, reaching up to cup my cheek. Her blue eyes twinkle under the light, her grin bright and wide. She’s completely unbothered, when I’m ready to murder someone.
“Six,” she says. Her scent sweetens, coming thinner, lighter.
I growl. “Who the fuck is coming to our dinner?”
She bursts into giggles, burying her face in my neck, still holding my cheek with one hand. I snarl, my chest vibrating with my anger, my scent thickening as it pushes out of me.
My scent gland tingles, and I don’t know if that’s because of my fury, or her breath teasing it.
“Emmeline.” My bark silences her laughter, but the mirth is still visible when she pulls away to look at me properly.
“The sixth is someone who has bene inside me far more than you have,” she says, waggling her brows.
I see red. I want to snap their neck. Crush them. I want to?—“
“Breathe,” my omega commands. She’s straddling me now, and leans in to brush a soft kiss to my scent gland. “I mean it, Uri. Breathe. That was mean of me, and I’m sorry. The sixth is our baby.”
And with that simple sentence all the anger, all the murderous rage, just disappears.
“Our baby.”
She beams at me, nodding. “Our baby. I’m sorry, I was trying to tease, but I should’ve realised that I was pushing things too far.”
“You weren’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m just…” I trail off quickly, as my therapists words come back to me.
You’re not a monster. Stop using it as an excuse for having emotions.
“I was just feeling angry.”
“And that’s understandable.” Emme leans in and presses her lips to mine. I grip her hips to stabilise her, and I let her lead the kiss. I can feel her love that she pours through her movements, her scent wrapping around me, like a second skin.
It’s part of me, it always has been.
“You’re everything,” I murmur against her lips.
“And I’m so proud of you,” she replies. Pecking me once more, she rests back on my lap, her ass pressing into my thighs. “You were going to call yourself a nasty name—I could tell. But you cut yourself off, and you were honest.”
“Therapy is working, huh.” I shake my head, a ghost of a smile on my lips. “It feels strange.”
“What does?” Emme asks, rubbing her cheek against my gland. She’s marking me—trying to offer comfort, trying to soothe.
I fucking love her.
How much she gives, even when she’s still a little scared to accept what she needs. What she deserves.
“How good my therapist is at breaking the cycle of negativity. He’s really good at cutting through the bullshit I tell myself. Even when I don’t realise I’m doing it.”
Emme hums softly, pressing another kiss to my gland, then dragging her lips up to my jaw. Her weight shifts against me, and I tighten my hold automatically.
“It’s not bullshit—don’t demean yourself that way,” she commands. “You’ve spent every single day of your life building your walls, trying to survive. You didn’t just wake up one day and decide to be hard on yourself.
“Decide to hurt yourself. It was your way to survive. Pushing your instincts to the side. Putting yourself first. You adapted. And now…” she exhales, shakily, and I know that this is something her therapist has told her.
I can just tell.
Me and my mate, we’re two peas in a pod. Her rejecting her omega nature, and my resenting my alpha. But biology determines who we are, and no matter how much we fight… we can’t change that.
“You’re unlearning all the negative lies you told yourself, and you’re actively making an effort. You’re strong, and brave, and a worthy man.”
“I don’t feel brave.”
I don’t feel worthy of her.
“You are.” Her voice wobbles, tears pricking at her eyes, as she brushes another kiss to my jaw. “So fucking brave, alpha. I’m extremely lucky to raise our child with you.”
Her scent spikes again—sweet, delicate—but with that little bitter tang of emotion that tells me she’s getting overwhelmed. I nudge her cheek with my nose, scenting her softly until I feel the spike fade.
We sit like that for a moment, both of us quiet. Breathing each other in, trying to take as much comfort from the other as physically possible.
“I know it’s not Sacred Sunday, and you don’t have to share any more if you don’t want to, but is there anything you would like to talk about?” she asks, after a quiet beat. Her tone is steady, even. “Even, Laxey, if you want to.”
I stiffen, knowing how much my mate hates Lacey. She resents all the pain that bitch caused us. Part of me is so grateful that she doesn’t care that she’s got the broken men—the ones who need help, just to fix theirselves.
But she’s not accusing anything. Not pushing, not forcing, just offering. Like she always does.
“I talked about her last session,” I admit, tracing my fingers in small circles over the soft swell of her bump. “My therapist said I should stop calling her ‘the problem.’ That I keep giving her power when I make her the focus.”
Emme huffs. “She is the problem.”
I laugh lightly, and I tighten my hold on her.
“I know. But I keep defining myself by how I survived her. I want to stop doing that.”
Emme nods. “I can understand that, in a way. You’re unable to separate yourself from her.” She blinks with her long lashes, and her blue eyes are covered with a sheen of tears. “And… maybe the two boys too? The ones you hurt?”
I sigh and nod. “You’re good at this.”
She laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “Probably because mine is just as good at finding the root of the problem.” Her hand finds mine, and she tangles our fingers together.
We’re touching so much, but she always wants more. And so do I.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” I ask, and her expression immediately closes down. I redirect, unwilling to push her away. “You’re unhappy with the way you look?”
She bites her lip, dropping her gaze to our joined hands. “Not always. Just… I’m getting bigger, my clothes are already struggling to hide it. I know people know, but I’m only just starting to be able to walk down a corridor here without people staring. Without hearing whispers.”
Her voice is small, like she’s ashamed. My growl is instinctive.
I want to fix it. I want to make Sterling follow her around, pointing out every single security threat to our mate. Every single person who can upset her mind, or make her feel uncomfortable.
Then I want to fire them. Get rid of them. To make this place as safe as physically possible for her.
She doesn’t deserve this shit. Not the gossip she’s always fought so hard to not be part of. Not the stares that make her feel so open and vulnerable.
“And today, I had to unbutton my pants after eating my lunch,” she adds bitterly. Her scent sours, and my gentle growls do nothing to help her. “I’m officially in the second trimester in a fortnight, and I’m going to have to stop wearing my scent neutraliser. People will be able to smell me the moment I walk past them.”
She shudders in my lap. “Everyone will know, and I won’t be able to hide it.”
I don’t know what to say or how to say it. Because now, I just want to say fuck firing people. Instead, let’s burn the building down. Destroy it so nobody can get near her. Nobody can worry her or make her feel uncomfortable.
Or, since that one is illegal, I should scent-mark every square inch of her and the entire building, so that everyone know she’s mine. That she’s untouchable.
“I feel so ridiculous,” she adds, and the sniffle breaks my heart.
I can’t do those things—not rationally. So instead, I hold her tight, and press a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair tickles my nose, but I don’t care.
“Little dove,” I murmur, nudging her head with my nose. “Do you know how many times I’ve walked into a room and forgotten what I went in for because I caught your scent on the air?”
She doesn’t reply, but her body stills.
“How many times I’ve had to walk out of meetings because I got hard just thinking about what it would be like to have you swollen with my baby, with your scent soft and low and sweet, curling around me like a promise of what’s to come later?”
Her breath hitches and she raises her head, to look me in the eyes. Her lips part, that delicious, torturous tongue wetting the bottom one.
“You think people are staring at you?” I ask. “Maybe they are. Because you’re glowing, little dove. Because they’re seeing you carry a baby. Our sacred, beautiful, child. They watch in fear, scared to touch you, to harm you, fearing the response. I might not actually be a monster—but for our baby? I’d rip the world apart to protect them.”
She shudders. I curl a hand around the back of her neck, grounding her, keeping her close. Her scent is fluctuating between anxiety, and shame.
“To protect you both .”
A tear trails down her cheek, and I brush it away.
“That bump,” I say, running my palm over it, “is not something to hide. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You are the most beautiful.”
I don’t bother wiping her tears away any longer, as they’re free-falling. The lavender in her scent is so sweet, I almost feel the urge to sneeze.
“How can you do this?” she asks, through her sobs. “I just… I don’t feel beautiful. Not like this. I feel bloated and off-balance and so stupidly hormonal. Just look at me, I’m a mess. I’m hungry all the time, desperate for a wee, and just so damn tired.”
“Of course you’re tired,” I say gently. “You’re growing our entire world inside you.”
I press a kiss to her scent gland, slow and soft.
“And you are beautiful. You always have been. But this? This version of you?” I stroke the underside of the bump with a touch so light it makes her shiver. I wish our baby could kick, that they could react.
But instead, it’s only my darling omega who does. She shivers again.
“You’re sacred. You’re strong. You’re mine. ”
“She’s sacred. She’s strong. She’s mine.”
“We adore your bump,” I murmur, and I glance around the room, to her surprise, before whispering. “Every single one of us. We talk about it constantly when you’re not around.”
Her eyes go wide in a shocked, betrayed way. Her scent sours so fast, it gives me whiplash. “You what ?”
I grin, completely unashamed. “Sterling thinks you’ll start waddling soon and is trying not to combust with how much he loves the idea. Oscar has already researched seven maternity pillow options and is ready to install a nap room on your floor. Paxton has been buying bkankets and pillows for the baby nest, and he found a soft teddy bear.”
“Right…” she trails off, her eyes narrowed.
“And he said it smells like you, when you’re nesting. When your scent is the most potent.”
Paxton is going to fucking kill me as soon as Emme shares that I’ve told her his secret.
Worth it.
She blinks. “He sniffed the teddy?”
“Sniffed every single one in the store,” I say solemnly. Inside, I’m trying to smother down my amusement. “And rejected the ones that didn’t smell ‘right.’”
She presses her face into my neck to muffle the laugh that bursts out of her. “You’re all insane.”
“Insanely in love with you,” I whisper, stroking her hair as she rests her head back on my chest. “Let us love all of you, Emmeline. Even the parts you’re still learning to love.”
She goes quiet at that. I don’t push.
I let her breathe.
And when she finally lifts her head, her expression is different. Softer. A little sad.
“I think,” she says slowly, “that’s what my therapist is trying to get me to understand. That I’m still trying to earn love I already have.”
I nod, giving her the space to keep going.
“I think I connect so much with your journey, because it’s similar to mine in a way,” she continues. I shouldn’t feel happy that we can bond in this way, because it’s awful, but I do at the same time.
This is a small part of her that I understand. Not Paxton who seems to just be able to read her mind and give her whatever she needs before she even registers it.
Not Oscar, who’s always known how to keep her steady. Who doesn’t need words to know when she’s spiralling. He tracks her scent changes, her breathing, her routines—and somehow, that clinical, analytical care? It soothes her. She trusts it. Trusts him .
And not even Sterling. The two of them have an easy understanding that I long for. Part of me is jealous at how much fire he can pull from her. How easy she acquiesces to him. How much she relents on.
He’s not an alpha—but to her, it doesn’t matter.
I’ve talked about this in therapy. About the ache I carry—the one that wants to be special to her. To have something that’s just ours. My therapist says it takes time. That bonds deepen with patience.
But this?
This is ours.
In the most harrowing, fucked-up way imaginable, we share something no one else does.
Our trauma. Our pain. The parts we’ve both tried to bury.
“You said that you needed to stop defining yourself by Lacey,” she says softly. “And I… I need to stop defining myself by those who let me down.”
Her eyes are cast downward, her lashes trembling.
“My therapist… she thinks it might be time I speak to them.”
“Them,” I echo. The word is bitter, sour even. I can feel it burning in my throat, ulcers already trying to form in my mouth.
She nods, sniffling.
“Your dads?” I ask, checking that my anger is directed to the right people. To the right bastards who hurt my mate.
A single nod. Her throat bobs as she swallows. My scent pushes forward, wrapping around her, meshing with hers. It’s the best way to calm an upset omega.
Well, that and their nest.
“She thinks I need to tell them. About the baby. About everything.”
She says it quietly, and I’m scared to move, to breathe, in case I startle her from this confession.
“They’ve always meant well,” she whispers, “but meaning well didn’t stop them from making me feel like I was broken. And now I’m supposed to tell them I’m pregnant—alone, unmated, unbonded. Again. Except this time it’s not a scandal. It’s…” She gestures to her bump, looking at me desperately, like she wishes I could fix it all for her. “Our baby is ours. Perfect. Everything is perfectly falling into place. How am I meant to tell them and let them ruin it? Let them ruin me ?”
“You don’t owe them anything, Emmeline. But if you want to tell them, we’ll be right there with you.”
Her eyes meet mine. Red-rimmed, shimmering, fierce.
“I don’t want to do it alone,” she says. “I know it’s cowardly, and pathetic. I know it’s not fair to make you meet them this way. But… please don’t make me do this alone.”
“You won’t.” I press my forehead to hers, feeling her heavy breaths on my face. “You’ll never be alone again.”
“You make me feel brave,” she whispers. “Like I can really do this.”
“Then trust in that feeling,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her jaw. “Let us keep building you up. Let us hold the pieces you don’t know what to do with yet.”
Her eyes shine. “Okay.”
She exhales slowly, nestling against me like she’s finally letting the weight settle somewhere safe. And for the first time today, her scent smooths out completely. No spikes. No edges. Just soft omega calm.
I hold her tighter, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, and breathe her in.
She’s mine.
And we’re hers.
And whatever’s coming next—we’ll face it together.
I’m sure she won’t hold it against me forever, if I let Sterling murder her dads…