Chapter Twelve #2
She turned the screen so both of us could see, and pointed at a fuzzy, peanut-sized blob. “That,” she said, “is an embryo.”
The words detonated in my skull. For a second, all the air left the room. My vision tunneled in on the screen, where a tiny, pulsing dot flickered with impossible life.
Jojo stared too, unblinking, then turned to me with the wet, bewildered eyes of someone who’d just been handed a bomb with the pin already pulled. “That can’t be—” he whispered. “We were careful—weren’t we?”
I honestly couldn’t remember. I’d been so damn careful with the guns and the fences and the perimeter, I hadn’t spared a single brain cell for contraception. We’d been too wrapped up in each other, lost in sweat and heat, and now there was—this.
The doctor cleared her throat. “You’re about a week along,” she said, voice gentler now.
“It’s common for omegas to have abdominal pain in early pregnancy.
You’ll need prenatal care, and to stay hydrated.
But you’re healthy otherwise.” She turned to me.
“He can go home tonight, but you’ll want to keep an eye on him.
Any severe pain or fever, bring him back. ”
The rest of her words dissolved into static. All I could do was stare at Jojo, at the way his arms wrapped around his belly like he was cradling something precious or fragile.
“Holy shit,” I whispered. “We’re…you’re…”
“Pregnant,” Jojo said, voice so soft I almost missed it. He looked at me, terror and awe mixed on his face. “Are you…mad?”
“Mad?” I repeated, because that was easier than admitting my entire nervous system had just been rebooted. My heart pounded so loud it hurt. “No. Not mad. Just… Christ, Jojo. How did I get so damn lucky?”
He laughed, a watery, broken thing, and I hugged him before I could think better of it, burying my face in his neck and breathing in the sharp tang of antiseptic, sweat, and the ineffable, perfect scent of him.
My hand drifted down, landing over his stomach. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know whether I wanted to kill something or start crying.
“I’ll take care of you,” I said. “Both of you.”
And I meant it.
The drive home tasted different—like copper on my tongue and gun oil in my lungs. I kept one hand on the wheel, the other stretched across the cab to touch Jojo’s leg, needing the confirmation that he was here, solid, not some fevered dream conjured by my own battered heart.
Jojo watched the blur of night outside his window, eyes swollen but dry now. Every few miles, he’d cast me a sidelong glance, then look away fast, as if afraid he might startle me or himself.
He finally spoke when we turned off the highway onto the long dirt road leading home. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve told you sooner. Or…not let it happen at all.”
I slammed the brakes, not enough to fishtail, but enough to make the seatbelts bite. “Hey,” I said, voice just above a growl. “There were two of us in that bed, remember? I’m not mad. Not at you, not at this. Just…Jesus, Jojo. It’s a lot. But I’m not running.”
He looked at me then, proper, and his mouth twitched in a small, fragile smile. I reached for his hand, laced our fingers together. “You want this?” he asked, and for a second he looked so fucking young it hurt.
“Yeah,” I said, because anything else would be a lie. “I want every piece of you. Even the ones I didn’t see coming.”
That shut him up, but I could feel the tremor in his hand ease a little, the tension in his shoulders uncurl. We drove the last few miles like that, silent but tethered, the headlights stretching our shadows all the way to the tree line.
As we crested the last rise before the house, my pulse ratcheted up. The porch light was on. But the front door—it hung wide open, the darkness behind it too deep, too deliberate.
I snapped to attention. The moment the truck stopped, I said, “Jojo, lock the doors. If you see anything move, duck under the dash and call the sheriff.”
He paled. “Rawley, don’t—”
I was already out of the cab. I popped the glove box and drew the Sig Sauer I kept there, racked it out of muscle memory, checked the mag.
Full. I worked my way up the drive low and quiet, senses tuned for movement, for the whiff of an unfamiliar cologne or the glint of a weapon.
My feet made no sound on the dewy grass.
The porch creaked as I climbed it. I kept close to the side, using the posts for cover, sightlines mapped in my head. Inside, the house was dark but not empty. A smell—sharp, animal—hit me first. Not blood, exactly, but close.
I cleared the foyer first, then the living room. Furniture undisturbed, nothing overturned or smashed. But something was wrong. The air vibrated with a static hum, the prelude to violence.
I moved up the stairs, started with the master bedroom, gun up and finger indexed along the frame, eyes sweeping every inch as I entered. Nothing moved, nothing creaked.
The closet was empty except for Jojo’s old sweaters and the battered duffel I’d never unpacked. I pressed my palm to the drywall, feeling for vibrations, for the telltale hum of someone holding their breath behind a false panel.
All clear.
Next, the guest rooms. The window over the bed was cracked open, but the screen was still in place, undisturbed. I clicked my tongue, catalogued the anomaly. Maybe nothing. Maybe not.
Bathroom, linen closet, attic hatch: clear, clear, clear.
I cycled through the rest of the ground floor, ending at the kitchen, where the little tableau still waited—white table, blue bowl, and the mutilated chicks, their bodies arranged in a perfect, sickening spiral.
There were maybe ten of them, their blood pooled and drying in neat crescents. Whoever had done this wasn’t just sending a warning. They were making art.
For a second, my mind flicked to the old cartel killings we’d studied in training—how violence could be language, how a message could be sent with nothing but animal carcasses and the right choreography.
This one was primitive, but effective.
My hands shook, not with fear but with the kind of rage that, unchecked, would lead to some real bad decisions. I forced my breathing to slow, pressed the muzzle of the Sig to my thigh until it left a faint, round bruise.
The pain helped me focus.
I finished the sweep: mudroom, basement, laundry.
All untouched. I looped back through the living room, then ducked out the back to check the porch and the shed.
A single, muddy boot print led away from the house toward the east fence line—deep, size twelve, not Jojo’s, not mine. Fresh, maybe hours old.
I locked eyes with Jojo through the living room window. He’d ignored my order to stay put, and stood framed by the glass, hands clenched at his sides, jaw set. His gaze met mine, wide and bottomless.
I gestured for him to come inside, but to keep his head down. He obeyed, ducking his shoulders as he moved through the door. I intercepted him before he could round the corner to the kitchen, slid a hand to his chest and gently steered him toward the bedroom.
“I want to see—” he started, voice thin.
“No, you don’t,” I said. “Go. Lock yourself in until I tell you.”
He hesitated, and I could see the war inside him—shame, worry, the urge to be useful. I softened my grip, stroked his hair behind his ear, and lowered my voice. “Please, Jojo. For me.”
That did it. He nodded and retreated, soft steps vanishing into the hallway.
I braced myself, called the sheriff with the landline. When he picked up, his voice was raspy, half-asleep.
“Calloway.”
“It’s Steele. You need to get out here,” I said, laying out the facts: break-in, no forced entry, animal slaughter, possible threat to life.
There was a pause, then a click as he got serious. “Anyone hurt?”
“No, but I want prints off my kitchen table, and I want to know if anyone’s been through the feed store this week asking about my property.”
Another pause, longer. “All right. Sit tight. I’ll be there in thirty.”
I hung up, then prowled the property perimeter, Sig low and ready, every footstep calculated. At the barn, the horses were on edge, nostrils flaring, ears swiveling to track me. No signs of human interference, but I left nothing to chance. I checked every stall, every feed bucket.
All clear.
On the way back, I stopped at the chicken coop. The door was off its hinges, the bedding inside thrashed and bloody. A trail of downy fluff and red spatters led toward the woods. I followed it a few yards, heart thumping, but the tracks vanished into the tangle. Smart. Or lucky.
Back inside, I washed my hands, then stripped to my jeans and stood by the kitchen window, watching the approach from the main road. Nothing moved but the wind.
In the silence, my mind replayed the events like film: Jojo retching, the embryo on the screen, the baby chicks arranged as a promise or a curse. It all ran together, adrenaline and dread twisting into a cold knot under my sternum.
I knew what was coming next. Whoever wanted us gone had played their first card, and it wouldn’t be their last. The difference was, now I had something worth fighting for. Something worth burning the whole fucking county down to protect.
I reloaded the Sig, chambered a round, and went to the bedroom. Jojo was curled on his side, blanket bunched under his chin, eyes open and waiting for me.
I slid in behind him, pulled him tight to my chest, and wrapped us both in a grip I wouldn’t loosen for anything. His scent—softer now, sweet with a new undercurrent I couldn’t place—filled my head, and I pressed my mouth to his nape.
“Go to sleep,” I whispered.
He nodded, but I could feel the tension in him, the question he didn’t want to ask.
“We’ll get through this,” I said. “Promise.”
He let out a shaky breath and, slowly, his body relaxed.
I lay awake until dawn, listening for footsteps on gravel, a car engine, a gunshot in the dark. Nothing came. Not yet.
But when it did, I’d be ready.