37. Emmeline
37
Emmeline
“ I
want to be sick again.”
I clutch my stomach, my head resting on the porcelain toilet seat. The tiles beneath my thighs are even colder, biting against my bare skin, but I barely notice it.
“Why?” Oscar demands, dropping down to feel my forehead. “When did you last see one of the guys? Has it been long? Have you eaten much today? Drunk enough? Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have gone to my meeting.”
His voice is tight with his panic, every syllable clipped and rising with intensity. “They’re not good at taking care of you, and it’s becoming problematic. Do you think they read the new study about cortisol spikes during omega’s second trimester, because I swear?—”
“Oscar, baby, breathe,” I murmur, reaching up to cup his cheek, gently redirecting his gaze to me.
His skin feels clammier than mine, and I know that my mate’s anxiety over our pregnancy is getting stronger with each passing day. I’m doing my best to help support him, but I know that a lifetime of medical anxiety isn’t going to be fixed in a matter of days.
Especially not when something crops up that could be worrying for him. Like the re-emergence of my vomiting.
“You’re spiralling, but I’m okay.”
He blinks once. Twice. Then swallows hard leaning into my touch as if that alone will ground him.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
He presses a gentle kiss to the scent gland on my wrist, his eyes fluttering shut.
“I’m feeling sick, because I’m anxious about the dinner with my dads today,” I say soothingly. “Paxton’s been with me most of the day, and Sterling and I had a nap together not too long ago. I’ve been alone for maybe, fifteen minutes. Twenty at a push.”
Probably closer to a half hour, but that’s going to upset him to hear.
His eyes open slowly, brows still drawn tight.
“That’s fifteen minutes too long,” he growls under his breath. But the moment I purr, he loses some of his tension.
“You hate being out of control,” I whisper. “But I’m okay. You need to trust me—trust the others. We’d tell you if I wasn’t.”
He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he gently tucks my hair behind my ear, his touch reverent despite how much I stink, and how close I am to vomiting again.
“I know it’s not an excuse, but your cortisol levels spike when you’re anxious and that passes through the placenta to the baby. If I’d been here—if I hadn’t missed the signs…”
“Oscar.” I pull him closer, forehead to forehead, trying desperately to not breathe on him as I speak. “Breathe.”
He nods once, the smallest of motions, and moves to press a soft kiss to my forehead.
If this were one of the others, I’d be mortified. I’m practically naked in the bathroom, with stale vomit in the bowl.
But it’s Oscar.
I don’t have those same feelings with him. He doesn’t flinch from the messy parts. In fact, he insists on being here for them. His autism means that he doesn’t have the same boundaries that neurotypical people have, and fortunately— unfortunately sometimes— that includes being with me in all of the embarrassing and gross pregnancy moments.
Diarrhoea, sadly not excluded.
“Help me up,” I demand, holding my hands out.
His eyes narrow. “Are you going to be sick again?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m all wiped out. Please help me up, so I can go get dressed.”
“Am I bad man if I wish that your dads would die so we don’t need to go tonight?” Oscar asks. He asks it so simply, and I know he’s genuinely wanting an answer.
“No. It just makes you human.” I squeeze his hands as he pulls me to my feet.
Once I’m upright, I let go of his hands to brace myself on the counter. My legs are still shaky, and my stomach churns once more.
I reach over to flush the toilet, and wash my hands. I want to brush my teeth, but I know I can’t stomach it right now.
Damn minty toothpaste.
It’s so different to the mint that clings to Sterling, and it’s very offensive to the baby in my stomach.
Foreshadowing to the arguments I’m sure we’ll have over brushing our teeth when they’re older.
“You ready?” he asks, and I nod my head. I take his arm, and let him lead me through to my bedroom.
He grabs the soft cotton skater dress that I got out to where, and runs his hand over the fabric.
I don’t know what he’s looking for, as I get a pair of clean underwear, and a non-wired bra.
“You should’ve got Sterling to steam this,” Oscar says, giving me a stern look. “You shouldn’t be near?—”
“He did,” I assure him.
“Oh. Okay, good. It’s beautiful. It’s quite interesting how we’re going to tell your dads about your pregnancy, and yet you’re wearing a dress that will hide it from them.”
“I need the confidence.”
He nods, reaching over to hook up my bra for me. I was managing just fine, but I know he’s anxious and wants to help.
I don’t protest when he kneels down to help me put my sheer tights on, or when he takes longer doing it than I would’ve.
He touches every aspect of my skin, and I wish we had more time.
I’d prefer a much different kind of touch.
“This colour brings out the silver flecks in your eyes,” he says, offering the icy blue dress to me. “Put it on, and I’ll zip you up.”
“You’re being very attentive.”
“Your pupils are still too dilated, and I’m worried you’re going to pass out.”
I laugh under my breath, as I pull my dress over me.
“Oscar, baby, I think that’s just adrenaline.”
“It’s suboptimal,” he replies, with a small frown. “But manageable.”
He’s extremely gently as he pulls the zip up my back, as if he’s dressing something fragile and priceless.
I know how he sees me, and when he spins me around, the scrutiny in his eyes is out of worry.
I feel the brush of his knuckles against my small bump as he smooths the fabric down.
“You don’t have to hide this,” he says as he straightens the hem.
I glance down at the swell of my belly, just barely visible beneath the drape of the skirt.
“I’m not doing it out of shame,” I lie. “I just want to look put together. Confident.”
“You look radiant,” he says without hesitation. “But stop cowering. You’re hunching in on yourself, and it’s making me angry knowing that these bastards are the reason you feel that way.”
“I’m sorry.”
I step over to the mirror and I see what he means.
He’s right, of course. I always curl in when I’m nervous. Trying to shrink down. Trying not to take up space.
Oscar sees it immediately, like he always does. I can’t hide anything from him. He moves behind me, hands gentle as he presses his palms to my shoulders and straightens them.
“Breathe into the back of your ribs,” he coaches, like this is just a normal Saturday to him. Coaching his fragile mate on how to stand properly.
“You know, you’re the only man I’d let boss me around half-naked in the bathroom,” I mutter, catching his eyes in the mirror. It’s a lie—I’d let the others do it to me too.
He tilts his head, thoughtful. “I’m not bossing you. I’m helping you regulate.”
I laugh, knowing he means it.
“I want you to understand something, okay,” he says, firmly. “You don’t need to perform tonight. You just have to survive it. That’s enough.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly.
“What if they say something awful?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper. “What if it ruins everything?”
He meets my gaze in the mirror, sharp and unwavering. “Then they’ll be the ones who ruined their chances with our pack and our family. Not you. You won’t be the problem in that room, not ever. It won’t change anything between us, or between you and your brother.”
His words settle low in my belly, and I nod my head. He moves away, and I start putting on my jewellery. Earrings in the right holes, my necklace being adjusted just right.
“Oscar?” I call, as I fasten the bracelet that Paxton bought for me.
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” he says simply, brushing a hand through my hair one more time.
And then, because he knows how much I’m struggling, he pulls the hairbrush from the counter and gets to work smoothing out the tangles like it's the most normal thing in the world.
Like helping me feel beautiful again is just part of the job.
“ Y
ou look radiant, sis,” Evander murmurs, tilting my chin up as he scrutinises my face.
There’s no blotch, no evidence of my sobs, or my vomiting episode. Just the softest hint of concern lingering in his green eyes.
He smells like dark chocolate and coffee—bitter and warm and achingly familiar. The scent of childhood mornings and comfort in a mug. Of the brother who never stopped trying to hold me together, even when the world didn’t bother.
He’s all golden tan, and rumpled edges, barely any thought put into his outfit. Where I’ve agonised over every loose curl, he’s not even ran a brush through his brown hair. It’s curled soft at the edges, but completely out of control.
No matter what my brother does or how he behaves—he’s always got the golden child privilege.
“You’re eating. You’re sleeping. You’re healthy ,” he continues, beaming at me.
I smile, my hand falling to my small bump. “I am.”
“You’d doubt us?” Sterling asks, almost dryly from where he’s sat on the sofa.
My brother doesn’t look away from me. “Only every second of the day.”
“Well that’s nice of you,” Paxton says from the doorway. He’s in his blazer, and looks perfectly put together as always. “Shall we just agree that you don’t find any of us trustworthy, but that tonight we’re not the enemy?”
Evander hums, glancing at my alpha, before looking at me. “You want that?”
“You know I do.”
Evander finally turns to them, his stance calm but assertive. He folds his arms across his chest, and it’s clear he’s sizing them all up. His scent thickens, but it’s no match for my united pack.
“I’m not here to start something,” he says evenly. “But I’d like to be informed if she’s too nauseous to stand.” His gaze flicks back to me, and I drop my head, not having realised he knew. “Or if she’s crying on the bathroom floor again.”
Oscar bristles beside me, but says nothing.
“I already told you she’s okay and that Oscar was looking after her,” Sterling replies, voice cool but not hostile. I know he’s really trying, and it makes my heart soar.
“And I already told you I don’t take chances with her,” Evander snaps back, his alpha bark cutting through.
I step between them before it can spiral into a fight we’re not going to recover from. Paxton is right. Tonight, the concern is my dad’s and their reaction to my new life news.
I don’t want to have to mediate fights between the men I love, and the brother I adore.
“They’re taking care of me, Ev. I promise.” I reach for his hand, squeezing it tight. “I’m happy. Genuinely .”
Evander breathes in deeply, like he’s scent-checking the truth in my words, and his eyes soften slightly.
“Then let’s go show the daddy’s how happy you are,” he says, linking our arms together, without a care for my men. “You ready?”
“I was born ready,” I lie, lifting my chin.
Oscar brushes past, placing a steadying hand on my lower back, and murmurs just loud enough for all of us to hear, “If they make you cry, I’m walking out with blood on my hands.”
Evander’s brows lift in dry amusement. “And people say I’m the dramatic one.”
Uri snorts. Paxton rolls his eyes, and Sterling barks out a laugh.
“Worse than that—Oscar says I’m the twisted one,” Sterling says. I roll my eyes, but I can’t deny the warmth that fills me.
Evander and Oscar lead me out of the house, and I come to a sudden stop when I see the limousine in the driveway.
“Really?” I ask, glancing around the group of men. Nobody has a guilty expression, and none of them seem to think it’s excessive.
Fucking hell.
Apparently, showing up to deliver the news of an unplanned pregnancy and secret pack requires tinted windows and a driver in a suit.
Just fucking perfect.
“Subtle,” I mutter, climbing inside anyway. I don’t have the energy to fight them on this one, and at least this way, we all get to travel together.
The journey isn’t long—ten minutes, maybe—but the silence stretches the whole way. I sit between Oscar and Evander, flanked by the heat of my mate and the quiet tension of my brother, and try to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
Everyone can smell the panic from the omega, but luckily, none of them call me out on it. Paxton glances at every few moments. Sterling scrolls on his phone. Uri stares out the window like he’s expecting snipers.
No one makes a joke.
No one tries to break the tension. We just sit here, basking in it.
When the limo finally rolls to a stop, I freeze. My heart is thudding rapidly, my stomach churning, and the instinctual urge to flee builds.
They never hurt me. Not physically. But goodness, does my body remember every ounce of pain we felt in this place.
My dads’ house hasn’t changed. Not one bit.
White shutters. Black door. A manicured path lined with pointless pebbles that shift when you step on them.
It’s pristine. Controlled. Cold.
I draw in a breath. The scent of Oscar’s calm, grounding presence wraps around me—almond and nutmeg, unhidden from the scent neutralisers tonight, just for me. But it doesn’t reach the panic simmering just under my skin, no matter how badly I wish it did.
Paxton pays the driver—a bonus, maybe, or their pay, I don’t know—and he drives away as I start to visibly tremble.
Evander notices. Of course he does.
“Want to run?” he asks softly.
I let out a shaky laugh. “Every second. But I’m not going to.”
He nods. “Let’s do this, Em.”
I smooth my hands down the front of my dress, shoulders back like Oscar told me, and stride towards the door. The walk feels shorter than it should.
Every step carries the weight of all the things I never said to them.
Of the girl I used to be.
Of the mother I’m about to become.
I lift my hand to knock, but before I can, the door swings open and there they are.
My dads.
In the front is Alexander. Always first to the door, always the first to judge. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back, his shirt pristine, not a thread out of place. His eyes—icy blue and perpetually unimpressed—scan me from head to toe.
I brace for it, but the subtle downturn of his mouth still cuts deeper than I expect.
He doesn’t say a word. Just tilts his head the way he always does, like he’s trying to calculate where, exactly, I went wrong.
Or maybe, he’s trying to figure out where he went wrong.
Behind him, Victor hovers too close. Ever the peacemaker, the networker. His golden-blond hair is still thick, his tan too even to be natural, and his pine and whiskey scent deepens.
Victor’s gaze flicks past me to the men behind me, his eyes already assessing who might be eligible, or worse, suitable for his daughter. I can see the calculation start behind his smile.
Damian stands with his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. He’s broader than the others, a little rougher around the edges—his dark stubble not quite a beard, his rugby jersey peeking from under his blazer. He looks at me with softness in his eyes, but says nothing.
He never does.
And then there’s Marcus, standing in the back, still wearing the coat he hasn’t had time to take off.
His dark eyes meet mine and immediately narrow—not in anger, but calculating. His scent—oakwood and burnt sugar—clings to the tension in his frame. He’s the one I take after most, and the one who’s always looked at me like I’m made of glass he doesn’t know how to keep from shattering.
My chest tightens. My bump feels heavier.
Four men. Four fathers. Four sets of expectations.
And four people I’ve done nothing but disappoint.
“You’re late,” Alexander says.
Oscar stiffens behind me, and Evander lets out a small laugh.
“You knew we would be,” he teases, and Alexander cracks a smile.
But I can’t laugh and relax like my brother can. Because just like that—I remember exactly who I’m dealing with.