Chapter 41 Dominic
Dominic
"Firefly? Mattaniah, please. Where are you?"
The line goes dead and I pull the phone away from my ear to stare at the screen, more worried now than I was three hours ago.
The bond has been fluctuating since he left, cycling through anxiety and denial before hitting something sharp and cold about an hour in that hasn't fully receded.
But the most recent spike made me dial his number for the fourth time.
The sound I caught in the half-second before he hung up was either wind or crying.
The hangup makes it worse.
"Something's wrong." I set my phone down and cross to the door.
"He probably just needs time." Amos doesn't look up from his laptop. "He asked us to let him have space and we agreed to—"
"No. Something is wrong." I grab my jacket from the hook. My scent has gone acrid in the apartment, sharp enough that Amos should be able to taste it. "I can feel it, Amos. This is something new and he's going under."
Amos looks up. His expression shifts as he tunes into the bond. His face goes still.
"Go find him." He stands. "I'll be here."
The bond is not a GPS. What it gives me is a directional pull against the mark on my neck. The signal gets louder with every block.
He's not at the pharmacy or the coffee shop four blocks south. The pull leads me past the apartment building toward the park at the end of the street.
The park is nearly empty at dusk. A jogger circles the far loop and a couple sits on a blanket near the fountain. Mattaniah is on the bench at the edge of the playground with his knees pulled to his chest and his hand pressed flat against his stomach.
I smell him before I'm close enough to see his face.
His scent carries the sour bite of distress, burnt wood and fear.
Underneath it there's something I've never caught on him before.
It's warm and sweet, vanilla threaded with honey beneath his usual coconut and woodsmoke.
My stride falters for half a step before my legs carry me the rest of the way.
He doesn't look up when I approach. Through the bond, he registers my presence but the distress doesn't ease.
I sit on the other end of the bench, not beside him, not touching. His eyes are red and swollen, his cheeks streaked with dried tears. His scent is so wrong and so new at the same time that my hands grip my knees to keep from reaching for him.
"I heard you crying on the phone." I keep my voice level. "Tell me what happened."
His chin stays on his knees, arms tightening around his legs. The playground swings rock in the evening wind and the sound of the chains carries across the empty park.
"I went to the pharmacy." His voice comes out muffled against his knees. "The doctor said I needed a pregnancy test before she'd refill my blockers. She said it was standard protocol."
My fingers dig harder into my kneecaps.
"So I took one. And then I took another because Amos has ruined me with his sample size obsession.
" A wet, broken sound escapes him that's trying to be a laugh.
"Dominic, I'm..." He swallows hard enough that I can see his throat work.
"I'm preg—" The word fractures. He presses his forehead against his knees and tries again. "I'm pregnant."
The word hits the bond before it hits my brain. My mark throbs so hard my vision whites at the edges. My hands are shaking on my knees and my teeth are clenched. Somewhere beneath the shock my scent surges thick enough to flood the bench between us.
"How long have you known?"
"A few hours." He lifts his head enough to look at me sideways. "I took two tests at the pharmacy. Both positive."
The instinct is so loud it's almost audible, every Alpha impulse screaming to pull him against my chest. I reach for him instead of asking, my hand closing around his arm.
His whole body goes rigid under my grip and his scent spikes sour.
I let go of him immediately. My hand returns to my knee. The rejection burns through the bond and I swallow it without flinching.
Three seconds pass before Mattaniah unfolds from his knees, shifts across the bench, and climbs into my lap.
He folds himself against my chest with his face in my neck and his fists knotted in my jacket. My arms close around him before my brain catches up to what's happening.
His scent fills my lungs. My body recognizes what the new scent means before the thought fully forms. The possessiveness hits so hard my teeth clench.
"I'm going to take care of this." The words come out rough against the top of his head. "I'll handle the doctor, the appointments, the vitamins. Everything. You don't have to worry about—"
"Stop." He pulls back far enough to look at my face. His eyes are still wet but the look in them is the one that means I've overstepped. "There are more people in this relationship than just you. This baby will have three fathers, not one. You don't get to make all the choices."
"I'm trying to—"
"I know what you're trying to do." His hand presses flat against my chest, over the mark Amos left on me. "Right now all of the choices are mine. This is my body. You can take care of me without taking over."
The correction lands and I let it sit. The difference between protection and possession is a line I have to keep choosing.
"Okay." I swallow. "Tell me what you need."
"I need you to not become a different person when this baby comes, and I need you to ask me what I want instead of deciding for me." His voice cracks. "I need the proving to keep going."
"The proving doesn't stop."
"You keep saying that."
"Because you keep needing to hear it." My arms tighten around him on the bench, holding without pulling. "We're not going anywhere, Mattaniah, not me and not Amos. You're stuck with us."
His head drops back against my shoulder. Through the bond, the jagged signal has shifted into something unsteady but no longer sinking.
"Take me home." He says it against my collar, his voice barely there. "I need to tell Amos."
"Then let's go tell him." I brush a tear track off his cheek with my thumb. "He may have his suspicions after this morning, but he needs to hear it from you."
Mattaniah pulls back enough to look at my face. "Suspicions?"
"Amos has been quiet since you left in a way that tells me he's calculated something he isn't saying.
" I shift him off my lap and pull him to his feet.
His legs wobble and I keep my grip on his arm until he's stable.
"Whether he's run the probability or not, he doesn't know for sure until you tell him. "
Mattaniah processes that for a moment, his expression flickering between angry and grateful. His scent flickers between the two, sour edge softening back into the warm vanilla before settling somewhere in the middle.
"He's going to have a spreadsheet ready by the time we get home." His voice is steadier now, the sarcasm surfacing through the exhaustion.
"He's going to have three spreadsheets and a prenatal vitamin comparison chart." I snort at Mattaniah’s effort to keep a straight face but he’s softening, slightly. "I'll bet you twenty dollars."
"I don't have twenty dollars." He wipes his face with the heel of his hand, smearing the last of the tears across his cheekbone. "I'm an unemployed pregnant Omega with two Alpha mates and no job."
"You're the forensic analyst who uncovered a two-point-four-million-dollar fraud." I keep his hand in mine as we start walking. "Even if you didn’t have your current job, you’d have a job by Monday."
The walk back to the apartment takes six minutes. Mattaniah's hand stays in mine, his grip tight, his stride uneven from sitting on a cold bench for hours. We're two blocks from the building when he speaks without looking at me.
"The heir clause." The words land flat between us. "The baby triggers it. You and Amos get controlling interest the moment a legitimate heir is born."
I don't answer immediately because lying to him now would undo everything we’ve been working toward.
"Yes."
"So this baby doesn't just tie me to you, it makes you untouchable. It gives you everything your father ever used to control you." His fingers press harder into my palm. "I can feel through the bond, that you're not scheming. I know this isn't a trap. But it feels like one, Dominic."
"I know it does." I squeeze his hand back.
"And yes, I calculated what the heir clause means on the bench thirty seconds after you told me.
That's who I am and I'm not going to pretend I didn't think it.
" I stop walking and turn to face him on the sidewalk.
"But I would burn that clause to the ground before I'd let you think our baby is a business strategy. "
Whatever he finds on my face makes his grip on my hand ease.
"Don't burn it. Use it." The corner of his mouth twitches despite the tears still drying on his cheeks. "Use it to bury your father. Just don't use it on me."
"Never on you."
We keep walking as the apartment building comes into view.
Amos is standing in the doorway, completely still with his arms at his sides and his glasses pushed up into his hair.
Mattaniah stops at the bottom of the stairs and looks up at Amos.
He lets out a small sigh, the weight of what he’s about to say vibrating through him.
I try to push some confidence through the bond, watching as our Omega’s emotions play out on his face. It takes him several seconds to say anything but when he does, there’s no beating around the bush.
"I'm pregnant." He says, the word comes out stronger this time than it did on the bench.
Amos comes down the stairs, holding back until he gets to the sidewalk and reaches Mattaniah, cupping his face, his mouth pressing against Mattaniah's forehead. His scent washes over both of us, gone warm in a way I haven't caught on him in years. "How far along?" Amos’ voice wobbles slightly.
"Two weeks. Maybe. I took two tests."
"Two tests is a sufficient sample size." Amos' laugh comes out wet. "I would have recommended three but two is sufficient."
Mattaniah's composure breaks as he folds into Amos' chest. I step forward and press against Mattaniah's back, the three of us content to hold each other there for a moment.
It feels like forever before we finally make our way inside, Amos moving toward the kitchen to start some tea before Mattaniah curls on the couch with his feet in my lap and his head on Amos' shoulder after he returns. The pregnancy tests sit on the coffee table between us.
"You suspected," Mattaniah says to Amos. "In the kitchen this morning, when I couldn't keep the blocker down."
"The blocker rejection combined with post-heat timing was a strong indicator.
" Amos' thumb traces slow circles on Mattaniah's shoulder.
"I wasn't sure, and I didn't want to put that on you before you had the chance to find out for yourself.
Your body was protecting the pregnancy by rejecting anything that could interfere.
It's actually a good sign, Niah. It means the hormones are strong. "
"A good sign?" Mattaniah's voice is thin. "My body staging a coup against my blocker regimen is a good sign."
"That's not a coup, that's instinct doing exactly what it's supposed to do." Amos' voice is gentle. "Your body knew before you did."
Mattaniah is quiet for a long moment. His feet press against my thigh and I wrap my hand around his ankle, grounding the contact without gripping.
"I'm not ready," Mattaniah says. "But I'm here."
Amos pulls him closer and presses his mouth against Mattaniah's temple. "How are you feeling physically right now?"
"I'm nauseous and tired, and my chest hurts." He pauses before continuing. "My scent changed. I noticed it at the park. There's something sweet underneath everything else that wasn't there this morning."
"It's vanilla and honey." Amos says it quietly, his nose still close to Mattaniah's hair. "I can smell it. It's going to get stronger."
Mattaniah turns his face into Amos' neck and breathes in. "Tell me something with numbers in it, something that makes this feel less terrifying."
"Omega pregnancies following breakthrough heats after prolonged suppressant use have a higher rate of successful implantation than standard conception.
" Amos' voice settles into the cadence of someone explaining something complicated to someone he thinks is smart enough to follow.
"Your body spent seven years storing the reproductive energy your blockers were suppressing.
When the heat broke through, everything your system had been holding back released at once.
The pregnancy isn't an accident, Niah. Biologically, your body was more ready for this than most planned pregnancies. "
"So what you're telling me is that my body has been planning a baby behind my back for seven years."
"What I'm telling you is that you and your baby are healthy and the numbers are on your side." Amos laces his fingers through Mattaniah's. "I already pulled five studies on post-suppressant Omega pregnancy outcomes. The data is good."
"You pulled five studies in three hours."
"I pulled five studies in the first forty minutes. The rest of the time I was building a prenatal nutrition plan cross-referenced with your blocker withdrawal timeline."
Mattaniah lifts his head from Amos' shoulder and looks at me across the couch. "You owe me twenty dollars."
"I said spreadsheets. A nutrition plan cross-referenced with a withdrawal timeline is a spreadsheet."
"It's two spreadsheets, technically," Amos says.
I wrap my hand tighter around Mattaniah's ankle and watch the Omega settle deeper into the couch between us. His scent has shifted from the burnt-wood distress into something warmer as his body relaxes. The fear is still cycling through the bond in slow waves, but it's no longer the only signal.
"I need to ask you both something." Mattaniah's voice is small. "And I need an honest answer."
"Ask," Amos says.
"Will you be good fathers?" He doesn't look at either of us when he says it. "Because I've been sitting on a park bench thinking about the fact that every parent we've ever had has been a weapon. And I need to know that you've thought about that too."
Amos' hand stills on Mattaniah's shoulder. My grip on his ankle tightens before I force it loose.
"Every day," I tell him.
"Me too," Amos says. "The difference is that we know what not to do. That's not nothing, Niah. It might not be much,” Amos murmurs against Mattaniah's hair. “But it’ll be enough.”