Chapter 32 Theo
THEO
The smell of paint was heavy in the air, thick and chemical.
Even with the windows open and the fresh March breeze drifting in from the Atlantic, the sharp scent clung to everything.
It curdled the bowl of oatmeal I’d managed to eat an hour ago, triggering a wave of nausea that I thought I’d left behind in the first trimester.
I swallowed hard, leaning against the doorframe of the empty room, and pressed a hand to my stomach.
Settled down was a relative term, apparently.
The violent morning sickness of those first weeks since West Virginia had faded into a dull, manageable hum now that I was well into my second trimester, but strong smells could still turn my stomach inside out.
But I didn’t leave. I didn’t turn around and retreat to the fresh air of the backyard or the safety of the master bedroom. I stayed right where I was, breathing through the nausea, because the view was worth the headache.
Dalton.
He stood on a wooden ladder, shirtless, his back to me.
The afternoon sun poured in through the west-facing windows, turning the dust motes into floating diamonds and gilding his skin in gold.
A fine sheen of sweat covered him, his muscles flexing and shifting as he reached up to add a stroke of violet to the wall.
We’d found the house two weeks after returning from Treasure Hollow.
My apartment above the game shop, much as I loved it—and as much as it held the memories of our first nervous nights together—just wasn’t right for a family of four.
The layout didn’t work for a growing family.
The only space appropriate for a nursery was on the other side of the apartment, and that was just too far away, The stairs were a hazard I hadn’t considered until I tried capturing a toddler in my mind.
I needed my baby close. I needed us close. My instincts, rewired and amplified by the biology knitting together a new life inside me, screamed for proximity. For a nest where I could hear every breath.
This place—a coastal contemporary house on a quiet, tree-lined street in Sugar Beach—was the answer.
It needed work, sure. But the bones were good.
The heart was good. The master suite was cavernous, easily fitting the custom California King bed Peyton had ordered without question, and this room—the nursery—was right next door, connected by a convenient pass-through door we’d installed ourselves last weekend.
The house had four bedrooms, four bathrooms, a half bath, and a fenced-in backyard that was perfect for a toddler to run around in.
Maybe even a dog. It was everything we needed. Everything we wanted.
Dalton shifted his weight on the ladder, the wood creaking in protest. He dipped his brush into a tray of sage green paint, his movements precise and confident. He wasn’t just slapping color on a wall; he was building a world.
He was painting a forest. But not just any forest,this was the one he’d sketched in West Virginia, brought to vibrant, living color.
A massive, whimsical tree dominated the main wall, its trunk twisted and ancient-looking but warm, painted in shades of chocolate and cinnamon.
Its branches stretched up and out, reaching across the ceiling like protective arms, covered in leaves that didn’t look quite real—some were gold, some were silver, and some looked like little stars. It was a shelter. A safe place.
Nestled in the crook of the lowest branch was a bear.
A soft, round, golden-brown bear with a kind face that looked suspiciously like Peyton when he was sleepy.
Higher up, peeking out from behind a cluster of star-leaves, was a clever-looking red fox with bright, intelligent eyes.
And near the base of the trunk, guarding the roots, was a badger—small, fierce, and sturdy.
It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It was a promise. It sparked the imagination. It was the perfect backdrop for the stories I would tell my child as we cuddled in the rocking chair I’d found at a consignment shop downtown.
Dalton paused, tilting his head to the side to critique his work. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a smudge of green near his hairline.
“I can hear you thinking from here, Theo,” he said, his voice rough with concentration. He didn’t turn around.
“I’m surprised you can hear anything over the fumes,” I countered, my voice coming out huskier than I intended. I pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room, the drop cloth crinkling under my bare feet.
Dalton chuckled, a low rumble that I felt in the floorboards. “I told you to wait until I aired it out. Go sit on the porch.”
“And miss the show?” I stopped at the base of the ladder, looking up at the long line of his spine, the way his jeans hung low on his hips, revealing the dimples at the base of his back. “Not a chance.”
He turned then, looking down at me. His eyes were dark, dilated in the dim light of the room. He looked wild and rugged, a stark contrast to the gentle scenery he was creating. Paint stained his hands, his chest, his cheek. He looked like he’d been wrestling with a rainbow and won.
“You’re stubborn,” he said, shaking his head. But there was no heat in it. Only affection.
“I’m nesting,” I corrected, reaching up to run my hand along his calf. His skin was warm, the hair on his leg slightly rough against my palm. I felt the muscle jump under my touch, a satisfying confirmation that I wasn’t the only one affected by the proximity. “I need to supervise.”
“Supervise, huh?” Dalton smirked, leaning down so his face was closer to mine. “Is that what you call staring at my ass for ten minutes?”
“I was admiring the brushwork,” I lied, keeping my face straight. “The badger looks excellent.”
“Uh-huh.” He dipped the brush again, adding a highlight to the bear’s nose. “I’m almost done with this section. I want to add some more fireflies around the fox.”
“Fireflies?” I teased, my hand sliding up from his calf to his knee, tracing the sturdy joint. “For magic?”
“Yeah,” Dalton said, his eyes flicking back to the wall, though his breath hitched slightly as my fingers moved higher. “Every kid needs a little magic. Even if their dad is a boring beta.”
“There is nothing boring about you,” I whispered, my voice dropping. My hand moved up his thigh, feeling the hard muscle beneath the denim shorts. “You created this whole world, Dalton. You made this for them.”
Dalton froze. He looked down at me, his gaze intense and searching.
For so long, he’d struggled with his place in this triad, feeling like the ‘other,’ the one without the biological link to the alpha or the omega.
But standing here, surrounded by the forest he was painting for our child, none of that mattered.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Creation suits me just fine.”
“Come down,” I whispered, the demand sudden and undeniable.
“I need to finish this cloud.”
“The cloud can wait.” I tugged gently on the waistband of his shorts, just enough to pop the button. “I can’t.”
Dalton groaned, a sound that vibrated deep in his chest. He dropped the brush into the tray on the ladder’s shelf with a wet thwack and climbed down. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace that made my knees weak, treating the ladder like it was nothing more than a nuisance keeping him from me.
As soon as his feet hit the drop cloth, he was in my space. He didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his paint-stained arms around me, careful to keep his hands hovering just off my good shirt, and buried his face in the crook of my neck.
He inhaled deeply, a shudder running through him. “God, you smell good. Better than the paint.”
“I should hope so,” I murmured, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “You smell like paint. And turpentine. And mine.”
“Yours,” he agreed against my skin. “Always yours.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching my face. Then he cupped my jaw, his thumbs tracing my cheekbones, and kissed me.
It started slow. A tasting. A question. But the answer was a fire that had been smoldering since I walked in the door.
I opened to him immediately, moaning as his tongue swept into my mouth.
It wasn’t frantic; it was deep, thorough, and possessive.
The kiss of a man who knew exactly where he belonged and wasn’t afraid to claim it.
I melted against him, molding my soft, changing body to the hard planes of his chest. The friction of his bare skin against my shirt was electric, sending sparks skittering down my spine.
I ran my hands down his back, feeling the ridges of his spine, the tense muscles of his shoulders, the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
He walked me backward, step by clumsy step, until my back hit the unpainted wall near the closet. The cool plaster shocked through my shirt, but it was immediately forgotten as Dalton pressed his hips into mine. I gasped, feeling the hard ridge of his arousal against my stomach.
“Dalton,” I whimpered, my head falling back against the wall, exposing my throat to him.
He took the invitation, trailing hot, wet kisses down my jawline, nipping lightly at the sensitive cord of my neck. “I’ve got you,” he whispered against my skin, his voice a low growl. “I’ve got you, Theo. You’re safe.”
“I know,” I breathed, my hands clutching at his shoulders. “I know. Don’t stop.”
“Never.”
His hands finally landed on my waist, abandoning his caution about the paint.
I didn’t care. Let him mark me. Let him paint me in violet and lavender and green until the whole world knew whose hands had been there.
He slid his hands up, rucking up my shirt, his rough palms scraping deliciously against my sensitive skin.
We lost ourselves in it—the heat, the scent, the sheer rightness of being together in this room we were building for the future. It felt like a promise sealed in breath and touch, a vow renewed with every kiss.
A soft, warm chuckle from the doorway broke the trance.
We didn’t spring apart—we were far past the point of hiding or shame—but Dalton slowed, resting his forehead against mine, his breath coming in ragged pants. We both turned to look, Dalton keeping one protective arm wrapped firmly around my waist.
Peyton stood leaning against the doorframe where I had been just moments ago.
He wore his work clothes—faded jeans and a black t-shirt that stretched tight across his chest—smelling of soil and sun.
He held two takeout cups of coffee in one hand and a bag with the Sugar Sweet Bakery logo on it in the other.
He looked tired, dirt smudged on his chin, but his eyes crinkled at the corners, warm with an affection so deep it made my chest ache.
“I leave you two alone for twenty minutes to paint a nursery,” Peyton teased, his voice low and fond.
He walked over, placing the coffee and bag on the floor before stepping into our space.
He wrapped his arms around both of us, sandwiching Dalton between us and pulling me into the embrace.
“And look what happens. You’re getting paint on the omega, Dalton. ”
“He started it,” Dalton said, breathless, a grin spreading across his face that made him look ten years younger. “He came in here looking like a snack. What was I supposed to do?”
“I finished it,” I corrected, leaning into Peyton’s solid warmth while keeping my hold on Dalton. “And technically, the paint brings out my eyes.”
Peyton hummed, a vibration that went through all three of us. He kissed Dalton’s paint-streaked shoulder, then leaned over to press a soft kiss to my forehead. Then, his large, warm hand moved down to cover my stomach, right over where our child lay.
“How are we doing in here?” Peyton asked, his voice dropping to that gentle, reverent tone he saved for the baby. “Getting plenty of fumes?”
“We’re fine,” I promised, covering his hand with mine. “Just introducing the kid to art appreciation early.”
Peyton squeezed us tight, then looked up at the mural properly for the first time.
He took in the rolling green hills, the vibrant wildflowers, the hopeful blue sky.
He stared at it for a long moment, his expression softening, losing the hard edge of the alpha protector and revealing the father beneath.
“It’s perfect, Dalt,” Peyton said, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s… it’s really beautiful. It looks like…”
“Like hope?” Dalton supplied quietly.
Peyton turned to him, eyes shining. “Yeah. exactly like hope.”
Dalton looked at the wall, then back at us—his family. The insecurity that used to shadow his eyes, the fear that he was merely a bystander in this biological miracle, vanished. In its place was a steady, quiet pride.
“It’s a good start,” Dalton said softly, pulling me in for one more quick, hard kiss before resting his head on Peyton’s shoulder. “Now, what did you bring us?”