Chapter Three #2
He nodded, like he didn’t believe me, but wasn’t going to push. He went to the sink and filled a glass with tap water, then slid it down the counter toward me. It stopped just at the edge of my reach.
“You need to stay hydrated,” he said, deadpan.
I grinned despite myself, but it slid off my face quick. “I’m not made of glass,” I said. “You can touch me.”
He set the second glass down with a thunk, and his hands curled against the granite like he was holding back a tidal wave. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want.”
“I don’t know what I want,” I admitted. “I just know I’m tired of pretending I don’t miss you.”
That landed somewhere deep in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, and for a second I thought he’d bolt again. Instead, he turned, slow and careful, and crossed the kitchen until we were breathing the same air.
When he touched me, it was with the back of his hand to my cheek, a touch so light I could have convinced myself it never happened.
I leaned in, closing my eyes. “If I tell you I’m scared, will you think less of me?”
“No,” he said, his voice a rock. “Never.”
I opened my eyes, saw the dark bloom of his pupils swallowing the color from his irises. He pressed his palm against my cheek, thumb brushing under my eye. His hand was calloused, the kind of hand that never forgot work or pain or how to fight for what mattered.
He went to say something, but the words caught.
“It’s okay,” I said. “You can say it.”
He looked at my belly, at the rounded curve under my sweater, and his whole body went rigid. There was a shift in him, like a wolf sensing danger at the tree line—his apology evaporating, replaced by something darker, more primal.
“What did you mean,” he said, voice low, “about your father?”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “He’d never let this happen. He’d make me fix it.”
Macon’s jaw clenched so hard I could see the vein twitch beneath his beard. “Not going to let that happen,” he said. “Not ever.”
He dropped to one knee, right there on the linoleum, so sudden it felt like the air had gone out of the room. His hands found my hips, big and gentle and shaking, and he pressed his forehead to my bump. The warmth of him bled through the fabric and straight into my skin.
“No one,” he said, “is going to touch you or our child.”
My throat locked up. I didn’t trust myself to move.
He slid his hands up, resting both palms on my belly. The pressure was feather-light, but I could feel every whorl of his fingerprints, every ghost of old scars.
“I swear on my life,” he said, eyes bright and burning, “no one will ever harm either of you.”
My knees nearly gave. I threaded my fingers through his hair, not sure if I was steadying him or myself. “Macon,” I whispered, and the world spun on the axis of his name.
He looked up at me, and there was nothing but ferocity in the set of his jaw. He squeezed my hips, just enough to ground me, and for the first time in forever, I believed I might actually survive this.
The sound of boots on the porch snapped the spell. The back door swung open, and Rawley filled the doorway, broad and rigid and twice as pissed as I’d ever seen him. His eyes flicked from me to Macon, kneeling, hands on my belly, then back up to me.
“Someone want to tell me,” he said, voice flat as a graveyard, “what the hell is going on here?”
Macon didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened.
I looked at Rawley, then down at Macon, and for once, I didn’t want to run. “We’re having a baby,” I said, voice clear and strong.
Rawley’s jaw dropped, and he blinked twice, like he’d been hit upside the head with a shovel. “You—are you—” He turned to Macon, then to me, then back to Macon.
Macon’s voice was calm, but every syllable vibrated with violence barely caged. “I’ll die before I let anyone touch them, sir.”
Rawley stared at us, every muscle in his neck pulled tight as a piano wire. I expected him to start shouting, to grab Macon by the collar and drag him out back.
Instead, he exhaled, long and slow, and rubbed a hand over his face. “My brother?” he said, finally, and the words sounded like he’d never spoken them out loud before. “You knocked up my baby brother?”
Macon looked up at me, then back to Rawley. “Yes, sir.”
The silence was a living thing. I wanted to break it, but I didn’t know how.
Rawley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. Then, to me, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrugged, blinking back a sting in my eyes. “Didn’t know if you’d want me around. Or if you’d just want it all to go away.”
He came across the room, slow and deliberate, then stopped in front of us. For a second, I thought he might hit Macon, but instead he just stared, sizing up the two of us, like he was trying to decide if we were real.
“You’re keeping it?” he asked, softer now.
I nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Good.”
He stood there a minute, then offered me his hand. I took it, and he pulled me into a hug that nearly cracked my ribs. He didn’t let go for a long time.
When he finally released me, he looked at Macon, still on his knees. “You going to take care of him?”
Macon’s voice was steady. “Always.”
Rawley’s lips twisted, and for a second I thought he might actually smile. “Better mean it, O’Reilly,” he said. “Or I’ll kick your ass myself.”
Macon nodded, and I swear there was a tear in his eye. He got up, slow and stiff, then reached for me. I stepped into his arms, and everything else faded out.
We stood there, the three of us, not sure what came next but sure that whatever it was, we’d face it together.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel invisible at all.
It should have been a punch line—two ex-military alphas and a half-starved, pregnant omega making it through a family meltdown with all limbs attached.
Instead, I just felt dizzy. The kitchen, which a second ago had been humming with electric tension, blurred at the edges, like someone had put Vaseline on my brain. I blinked twice, tried to focus, but the floor tipped sideways and the lights went weird and soft.
Macon noticed first. He caught me under the armpit, grip like iron, and Rawley’s hand shot out to stabilize my shoulder.
Their argument evaporated. Both moved in with the unspoken choreography of people who’d done this before—probably on battlefields, or in kitchens, or maybe just picking up the pieces of broken people wherever they found them.
“Hey,” Macon said, voice low and sharp. “Hey, Carter, look at me.”
I tried, but my eyelids wouldn’t cooperate.
“Carter,” Rawley barked. “You with us?”
I nodded, then shook my head, which made no sense, but was the best I could do.
“You’re pale,” Macon said, concern drilling down to the bone. “When’s the last time you ate?”
I had to think. “Maybe… yesterday? I had a granola bar. In Idaho.”
“Jesus,” Rawley said, his voice cracking for the first time in my life.
Macon turned to Rawley, his expression stone. “Get water. And something salty, now.”
He guided me toward a chair, but my knees gave and I went down hard. Macon caught me in a fireman’s lift, one arm under my thighs, the other around my back. The world smelled like sawdust and his aftershave, and I clung to his flannel shirt, fingers tangled in the fabric.
“Easy,” he said. “Got you.”
He carried me down the hall and then up the stairs, feet silent on the old wooden floor, and I let my head loll against his shoulder. He didn’t put me down until we hit the guest room, the one with the quilted blankets and a window that faced the paddock.
He set me on the bed like I was breakable, then crouched in front of me, hands braced on my knees.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just lightheaded. I’m fine.” The lie was threadbare.
He shook his head, jaw working. “I should’ve noticed sooner. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t fix everything,” I said, even though I wanted him to try.
His eyes flashed with something that looked like guilt, then settled into a familiar protective gleam. “You need food. And sleep.”
Rawley appeared in the doorway, holding a glass of water and a fistful of crackers. His eyes were wide, and he looked, for the first time, like the big brother I remembered from childhood—a little scared, a little angry, but mostly worried.
He handed me the water, then the crackers, and I took both with trembling hands.
“Thanks,” I managed, and tried to sit up straighter.
Rawley’s voice was gruff, but the sharp edges had softened. “What the hell are you doing, driving all this way alone?”
“I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble,” I said. “Didn’t want Dad to find out.”
He scoffed. “He’s going to find out, Carter. That’s what he does.”
I sipped the water, and the room steadied a bit. “Maybe. But at least I got here first.”
Rawley nodded, then looked at Macon. “You staying tonight?”
“If he wants me to,” Macon said, never taking his eyes off me.
I did want it, but I couldn’t say it. Not out loud. I just nodded, and Macon’s hand settled on top of mine, thumb tracing the back of my knuckles.
Rawley’s shoulders slumped, and I could almost see the fight drain out of him. “Okay. Just—let me know if you need anything.” He hesitated, then ruffled my hair like I was twelve. “Get some rest, Little Brother.”
He closed the door behind him, and Macon exhaled, long and slow.
We sat in the silence, just breathing. I munched a cracker, then another, crumbs dusting my shirt. Macon watched, an amused glint in his eyes, and I realized how ridiculous I must look.
“What,” I said, mouth full.
He grinned. “Never thought I’d see the day you’d take orders from a cracker.”
I swallowed. “Yeah, well. Never thought I’d see the day you’d carry me like a damsel.”
His smile faded, and he looked down at our hands, fingers tangled together.
“I meant what I said,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not letting you do this alone. Even if you want to hate me for it.”
I didn’t want to hate him. I wanted to memorize every line of his face, every scar, every story he never told. But the words felt too big, too much, so I just squeezed his hand tighter.
“Okay,” I said. “Stay.”
He did. He stayed through the crackers, through the water, through the long dark that settled outside the window. When I started to doze, he pulled the quilt up over my shoulders and smoothed the hair from my forehead.
I felt stupid for liking it so much.
I drifted in and out, the world blurry and soft, but every time I surfaced, he was still there, thumb stroking my hand, gaze never leaving my face.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to find him still beside me, sitting in the old desk chair, head bowed and hands folded like he was praying. Maybe he was. Maybe we both were, in our own broken ways.
I shifted under the blanket, and his eyes snapped open, instantly alert.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Just—wanted to make sure you were still here.”
He smiled, and it was the softest thing I’d ever seen. “Not going anywhere.”
I let myself believe it, just for tonight.
When sleep dragged me back under, I felt safe for the first time in years.
And in the dark, with Macon’s hand in mine and the sound of his breathing anchoring me to the world, I dreamed of something I never thought I’d have—a future.