Chapter Four
~ Macon ~
There’s a particular kind of dawn in Montana, the kind that grinds into you before it even thinks about softening. No slow gradation of gold or pink. Just a cold light leaking in through the window, flattening the world to grayscale.
I woke to it, every cell in my body on edge, but I didn’t move. Not right away. My arm was slung across Carter’s midsection, his back nestled against my chest, and I stayed frozen in place as if the bed itself had declared a ceasefire.
His body was all angles and warmth beneath the covers, the old quilt pulled up to his chin. In sleep, Carter’s face was almost childish, the tension he wore while awake gone, replaced by a slackness I could never manage.
I let my hand rest just above the rise of his belly. Even in the low light, you could see it, the newness of it, how it made everything else—his narrow hips, his ribcage, the shallow dip at his collarbone—secondary.
The little bump had a gravity that I felt more than saw, drawing my palm down, reminding me of exactly what I’d done, who I’d become, and what I’d need to be from here out.
I counted my breathing, kept it slow and regular so I wouldn’t wake him. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Selfish as it was, I needed another few minutes of him just existing in the same room, unguarded, unconcerned, safe.
After five minutes—by the wall clock, not guesswork—I started the extraction. I’d done this a thousand times in darker, less forgiving places. But there was no IED here, just the minefield of Carter’s feelings and the risk of losing him again if I misstepped.
I peeled my arm back, inch by inch, waiting for the twitch that would signal he was waking, but he stayed deep under. I propped myself on one elbow, studying his profile. The truth was, I’d never really studied him before. Not like this. Not with the idea that he might be permanent.
He had a scar under his chin, a pale nick, probably from some stupid childhood fall. His lips were parted, breath coming out in a whistle through his nose, and one hand was fisted in the edge of the pillow like he was afraid the world would snatch it away if he let go.
My hand drifted to his stomach. I let my thumb rest just above the rise. There was a pulse there, so faint it might have been my imagination, but I chose to believe it was something else. Something new, something not yet ruined by the world outside this bed.
Yesterday felt like a fever dream. Carter, materializing in the yard like a ghost conjured by guilt. The argument with Rawley. The way Carter had looked at me—not as a savior or a mistake, but as a man he hoped wouldn’t run again.
I bent forward and pressed my lips to Carter’s temple, just enough to let myself remember what he smelled like—shampoo and salt, a trace of whatever lotion he’d filched from the guest bathroom. I hovered there, breathing him in, before finally letting go and rolling out of bed.
The bedroom was cold. My boots were on the floor where I’d left them last night, next to the shirt I’d peeled off when Carter started shivering and demanded every blanket in the room.
I dressed quietly, first the thermal, then the flannel, then the jeans, soft with years of wear and a hundred washes.
I paused at the foot of the bed, took in the scene one last time. Carter, half-buried in blankets, his belly a soft curve beneath the faded navy t-shirt. His hand had migrated to where mine had been, cradling the swell. He looked peaceful, if you ignored the tension behind his eyes even in sleep.
I told myself it was okay to leave him. That he’d wake up, remember the night, and understand that someone had to keep the world spinning while he got his rest.
I left the door cracked, just in case.
The hallway was all old wood and old ghosts.
The boards creaked, but only a little; I’d memorized every loose plank my first week here, mapped them like a safe route through enemy terrain.
I padded down, past the old photographs of Steele men in uniforms and suits, and into the mouth of the kitchen.
The smell of coffee hit me before I saw Rawley. He’d been up for hours, probably. That was his way—anticipate the threat, stay one step ahead, even if the only enemy was his own thoughts.
I paused at the threshold, squaring my shoulders, hands braced against the doorframe. My knuckles were white and I made myself loosen the grip. It didn’t matter how many fights you’d been in; facing your best friend after knocking up his baby brother was never going to feel routine.
The kitchen was bright compared to the rest of the house, every window pouring in the sullen, metallic light of early morning.
Rawley stood at the stove, back to me, arms crossed.
His posture was parade ground perfect, not an ounce of slack in him.
Two mugs on the counter, one steaming, one still waiting.
I cleared my throat. He didn’t turn.
I stepped inside, the soles of my boots sticking a little on the worn linoleum. I said, “You’re up early.”
His jaw flexed. “Didn’t sleep.”
I nodded, not expecting more. I reached for the empty mug and filled it, black as sin, then leaned against the far counter. I kept my body language open, nonthreatening, like we’d been taught in conflict de-escalation, though I doubted that mattered here.
The silence stretched. It wasn’t a comfortable one, but it was honest, and that counted for something.
I sipped the coffee. It was so strong it nearly stripped my tongue, but I welcomed the burn. “You want to yell at me now, or after?”
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes flat and cold. “If I wanted to yell, I’d have started last night. I’m just trying to figure out if you’re staying or if you’re going to disappear again.”
The question wasn’t a question. I let it hang there, let it seep into the cracks of the old house.
I set my mug down. My hands were steady, but my chest felt hollowed out. “I’m not leaving,” I said. “Not unless he wants me gone. Or you do.”
Rawley turned around fully then, arms still folded. He studied me, and for a second I saw the kid he used to be, hiding bruises from his old man, daring the world to take a swing at him. “You know what happens now, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
He waited, as if testing to see if I’d flinch.
I didn’t. I just stood there, grounded in the kitchen, the sunrise slashing its way across the sink and the knot in my gut slowly, slowly unwinding.
Rawley’s eyes softened, just a fraction. “He’s your omega now, you know,” he said, low.
It hit harder than any punch.
I blinked, once, twice, then picked up my mug and took another swallow. “I know,” I said.
He looked away first, then busied himself with the percolator, as if it needed further tending.
I let myself breathe, just a little, and listened to the sounds of the house—floorboards expanding, the fridge’s compressor rattling on, the muffled footsteps from the far hallway that told me Carter was up, or at least trying to be.
I finished my coffee, squared my shoulders again, and steeled myself for the next step. I had no illusions. The hard part wasn’t over. But it was morning, and I was still here.
For the first time in a long time, I wanted to stay.
Rawley didn’t move from his post at the counter when I took my first step inside. He poured the second mug of coffee, set it precisely on the battered wood, and didn’t look up when I claimed it. The air between us was thick with words that neither of us wanted to be the first to spill.
I drank. The coffee was scalding, dark enough to stain the inside of your mouth for a week.
Good.
I needed the pain.
Rawley’s voice came out flat, stripped of everything but the bones. “How long?”
The question was a grenade with the pin already pulled.
“Since that night in the barn.” I didn’t bother softening it. “I didn’t know until later. By then—”
He cut me off with a sharp gesture, a flick of the fingers like he was dismissing a bad hand at poker. “You could’ve called him. Written. Anything.”
He turned, leaning his hips against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were flint. “Instead you left him. Alone. He’s a fucking omega, Macon, not a goddamn Navy SEAL.”
I let the accusation hit me. I deserved it. “You think I don’t know that?” My voice sounded like gravel in my throat. “I thought if I left him alone, he’d have a chance at something better. Someone who didn’t come with a load of baggage.”
Rawley’s jaw flexed. “You don’t get to decide that for him.”
“I know.”
For a minute, the only sound was the tick of the wall clock and the slow, deliberate sips of coffee as we stared each other down across the gulf of the kitchen.
“You love him?” The question was a sucker punch, thrown soft but landing hard.
“Doesn’t matter if I do or not. He’s mine now. Family.”
He scoffed. “Don’t romanticize it. He’s always been an afterthought to the family. Even now, his own father—” Rawley’s voice broke, and he snapped his mouth shut, furious at himself for the show of emotion.
“He’s not an afterthought to me,” I said, low. “Never was.”
He studied me. “So what now? You just move in together and play house? Raise a kid together like nothing happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said, because it was the truth. “I’m making it up as I go.”
Rawley’s mouth twisted, half amusement, half contempt. “You ever change a diaper?”
I barked a laugh, surprised at how bitter it tasted. “No. You?”
“Not unless you count patching up Burke after a tequila bender.”
We both let that hang for a minute, the edge dulling just a hair.
Rawley finished his coffee, slammed the mug down a little harder than necessary. “Carter’s scared shitless, you know. He acts tough, but he’s still just a kid.”
“He’s stronger than you think.” I thought about the way Carter had looked at me last night, trembling but still there, still trying. “He’s probably stronger than both of us.”
Rawley’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t hurt him again. Not even a little. I’ll make your life hell if you do.”