Chapter 31 #2
I nod again, too choked up to answer.
Pancake meows loudly from the rug as though adding his own opinion. Beau crouches one last time to scratch behind his ears before standing again, flowers in hand.
We all pause at the door. The night air waits on the other side, carrying me closer to Levi, to his parents, to whatever future awaits me with these men.
My palms are damp. My chest is tight.
I take in a deep breath, holding it until my ribs ache, then release it slowly.
It will be okay, I tell myself repeatedly, until the words are the only thing holding me upright.
It will be okay.
Simon reaches for my hand as we stand on the Maddoxes’ porch, his palm warm against mine. He squeezes lightly, grounding me, and I let out a breath.
In his other hand, he’s carrying the bottle of wine we picked out this afternoon. A safe, smooth red Beau swore would please anyone.
“Ready?” Beau asks from my other side, bouquet already delivered, chocolates tucked under his arm.
“Ready,” I whisper, though my pulse hammers loud in my ears.
Levi’s childhood is etched into this house. His laughter, his milestones, his teenage tantrums—all of it lives in these walls. And now I’m about to step into that history as… whatever I am.
Their son’s Omega. His pack’s Omega. My stomach somersaults.
Beau knocks, and the sound echoes like a drum in my chest. It takes only a few seconds, though it feels much longer, before the door swings open.
“Boys!” Mrs. Maddox exclaims, her face lighting up. She’s petite, hair silvering at the temples, her sweater soft and cream-colored.
Her eyes crinkle as she hugs Simon, then Beau, then Levi, who has just appeared from somewhere behind her. She collects the gifts from their hands with warm gratitude.
“These are from Wren,” Beau says, pointing at the flowers as she takes them. “Hope they brighten up the table.”
“They’re beautiful,” she says kindly. Then her gaze finds me, and I freeze.
“Hey,” I manage, lifting my hand in a small wave.
She doesn’t hesitate. She hands the chocolates and wine off to Levi and then steps right into my space, wrapping me in a hug.
For a heartbeat, I’m stiff as a board. No one’s mother has hugged me like this in years. Her scent is familiar and grounding—vanilla layered over laundry soap, and the faintest hint of rosewater.
Slowly, my arms come up. I hug her back, letting myself lean into her warmth. It takes everything in me not to cry from the simplicity of it.
When she pulls back, her eyes are kind, no judgment there, no suspicion. Just welcome. “We’re so glad you’re here, Wren.”
The house smells incredible. Garlic and herbs mingle with the buttery warmth of bread baking, something sweet caramelizing in the oven. My stomach growls, betraying me.
The living room, beyond the entryway, glows with lamplight, books stacked neatly on the coffee table, and a quilt draped across the couch. Cozy. Lived-in. The kind of home that feels like a hug.
Mr. Maddox appears, tongs in hand, an apron tied over his shirt. He has Levi’s broad shoulders and sharp jaw, though his hair is now more salt than pepper.
“You must be Wren,” he says, smiling as though he already knows me. He shakes my hand warmly, the tongs clinking against his thigh.
“Yes,” I say softly. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
Levi reappears, setting the flowers in a vase, wine on the counter. He moves with familiarity, clearly at home in this kitchen where he grew up. The sight of it—the ease, the belonging—makes my chest ache with longing.
And then, before I can settle in, he’s at my side. His parents are distracted by something on the stove, and Levi dips his head, stealing a kiss.
His lips brush mine, soft but sure, and my knees nearly buckle. I push him off quickly, giggling under my breath.
“Levi!” I whisper.
He only grins, eyes glinting, as though the risk of being caught thrills him.
Mrs. Maddox turns back, none the wiser. “Beau, darling, would you pour the wine? Everyone should have a glass.”
“Of course,” Beau says easily, already reaching for the corkscrew.
“And Wren,” she continues, her gaze landing on me again, “why don’t you help me in the kitchen? The boys always hoard you, so I think it’s only fair I get some girl-to-girl time.”
My pulse jumps. “Oh—yes, of course.”
She smiles like she’s won, then gestures for me to follow her down the hallway and into the kitchen proper. It’s warm, bright, every surface filled with bowls and platters. Copper pots hang above the island, catching the light.
As I step in, my gaze lands on a mixer perched in the corner. Old, sturdy, its enamel chipped. The exact model my grandmother had when I was a girl.
My throat tightens. “You have one of those,” I say softly, pointing.
Mrs. Maddox follows my gaze. “Oh yes. That mixer has been with me since Levi was in diapers. Best in the game.”
I nod, swallowing against the lump in my throat. “My grandmother had the same one. She taught me to bake with it. Pies, mostly.”
“Ah,” she says. “That explains yesterday.”
I tilt my head. “Yesterday?”
She smiles. “The pie Levi brought me. Apple cinnamon. It was wonderful. You made it, didn’t you?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I did. I’m glad you liked it.”
“Liked it?” She waves a hand as though the word is too small. “I devoured it. Best crust I’ve had in years.”
Her praise fills my chest with both swelling and ache. I murmur, “Thank you.”
She gestures toward the sink. “Wash up, then. I’ll put you to work.”
I roll up my sleeves and step to the counter, scrubbing my hands with lavender soap that smells almost identical to the kind I use at home. The familiarity soothes me. I dry them on a towel, then look to her for direction.
She passes me a bowl of green beans, their ends still intact. “Would you mind trimming these? We’ll sauté them in butter and garlic later. Nothing fancy, but Levi always liked them.”
I smile faintly as I take a seat at the island, knife in hand. “Of course.”
As I work, slicing and piling the beans, she leans against the counter across from me. “So,” she says, voice light, “tell me about you, Wren. What’s something I should know?”
The question lodges in my chest. What should she know? That I nearly lost the café? That I’ve stumbled and scraped my way through too many jobs just to survive? That her son and his best friends claimed me in a way I never thought I’d be wanted?
Instead, I smile faintly. “I grew up here—small-town girl. My grandmother raised me, and she taught me everything I know about baking. The café is my dream, really. I’ve been working to bring it back to life.”
Her eyes soften. “Levi mentioned. He’s very proud of you.”
The words knock the air from me. Proud. Levi said that. My chest aches.
I keep working, the rhythm of trimming beans grounding me. The house hums with warmth, the murmur of the men’s voices in the other room, the clink of glasses as Beau pours wine.
My nerves don’t disappear, but they ease, just a fraction, as Mrs. Maddox smiles across the counter at me, like maybe she’s glad her son loves me. I let myself hope that maybe I can belong here.
The green beans are trimmed and stacked neatly in a bowl when Mrs. Maddox pulls a pot closer and dips a spoon into it. Steam curls up, rich with herbs and something buttery. She blows on it, then turns toward me with a conspiratorial smile.
“Here,” she says, holding the spoon out. “I need a second opinion. My boys always say yes to everything, so they don’t count. You’ll give me an honest answer.”
My pulse kicks, because she’s including me in something so small, so intimate, as though I belong here. I lean forward, letting her spoon-feed me the sample.
The flavor hits my tongue—creamy, garlicky, something earthy underneath. And then my stomach lurches violently.
I choke back a gag, hand flying to my mouth. “Oh no—”
I stumble toward the sink, spitting into a napkin before it can go further. The nausea crashes over me so fast my eyes water.
“I’m so sorry,” I stammer, wiping my mouth, face burning. “I don’t know what—”
Mrs. Maddox only chuckles softly, setting the spoon aside. “Oh, honey, don’t apologize. It happens.”
“I don’t understand,” I whisper.
My body feels foreign, traitorous. Just minutes ago, I was fine, and now I’m fighting waves of sickness from one spoonful.
She shrugs lightly, too calm, as though this is nothing new to her. “I used to get nauseous from certain tastes too. Garlic, especially. When I was pregnant with Levi, I couldn’t keep it down at all. Ginger ale helped a little.”
Pregnant. The word detonates inside me.
I freeze, staring at her, pulse roaring in my ears. Pregnant.
She doesn’t notice my stillness. She grabs a glass, cracks open a chilled bottle of ginger ale from the fridge, pours it until it fizzes to the brim, and presses it into my hand.
“Sip,” she says. “It’ll calm the stomach.”
I obey because my body moves on autopilot. The bubbles tickle my throat, sharp and sweet, and the nausea eases just enough that I don’t feel like collapsing. But my mind is spiraling.
Pregnant.
I’ve been taking the pills Simon prescribed—every morning. No excuses. No slip-ups. I’ve been careful because I know how high the stakes are with three Alphas. And yet—
I sip again, nodding weakly. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says gently. “You’re fine, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it.” She pats my arm as if I’m one of her own kids, then slides the pot back onto the stove. “Come on, let’s bring these out.”
We walk back toward the dining room. She’s carrying the dish, and I’m clutching the glass of ginger ale like it’s a lifeline.
The table is already set: wine glasses filled, silverware gleaming, napkins folded into neat triangles. The Maddox family home has that lived-in charm, not fussy, but warm, where you can tell countless meals have been shared across this table.
Everyone is waiting, voices low and easy. Beau looks up as soon as I sit, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You okay, sweetheart?”
I nod quickly, forcing a smile. “I’m great.”
His brows pinch like he wants to press, but he lets it go when Levi’s mother settles in with a flourish of serving spoons.
Plates are passed around, laughter picking up as Beau tells a story about Pancake trying to steal a sandwich off his counter this morning. Levi’s father chuckles, then asks Simon about the flu that had gone around recently.
“It’s managed now,” Simon says smoothly, sliding me a plate. He looks calm, the doctor in him showing, though I catch the faint exhaustion shadowing his eyes. “I’ve seen fewer cases this week. We’ll keep monitoring, but I think the worst is over.”
And just like that—like the strike of lightning—it hits me.
The flu.
The week before the festival. When I was sick, when I was so nervous I couldn’t hold anything down. I had thrown up so much that I couldn’t remember keeping water in my stomach, let alone a pill.
My heart slams hard against my ribs. What if I didn’t keep it down? What if my body rejected the birth control pill?
Heat floods my skin. My palms are slick with sweat. My vision blurs at the edges as I force another sip of ginger ale, but it doesn’t settle me this time. It only churns with the panic building inside.
Pregnant.
The word doesn’t stop echoing.
“Wren?” Levi’s voice pulls me back, concern etched in every line of his face. “You okay?”
I nod too quickly. “Yes. I just—where’s the powder room?”
Mrs. Maddox gestures down the hall. “Past the kitchen, on the left.”
“Thank you.” I push back my chair, my smile brittle, my legs shaky under me.
But when I reach the kitchen, I don’t turn left. I don’t make it to the powder room. My feet keep going, dragging me toward the back door, out into the cold night air.
The chill slams into me, sharp and bracing, but it doesn’t stop the shaking. My breath puffs in uneven bursts, my heart racing as though I’ve run a marathon.
Pregnant.
It can’t be. It can’t. I was careful. I followed every instruction. But the pills can’t work if they don’t stay in my system.
I wrap my arms around myself, shivering hard. I can’t go back in there. Not until I know. Not until I’m sure.
Fumbling, I pull out my phone, hands trembling so much I nearly drop it. I scroll until I find Norah’s name and hit call.
She answers on the second ring, voice cheerful. “Hey, you surviving dinner with the Maddoxes?”
I choke on a sob. “Norah.”
Her tone shifts instantly, sharp with concern. “What’s wrong?”
My voice shakes as the words tear out of me. “Can you—can you come get me? Please?”
There’s silence, then the sound of her grabbing keys, movement in the background. “I’m on my way. Where are you?”
“Back porch. I can’t—” My breath hitches. “I just need to get out. Please.”
“I’ve got you,” she says firmly. “Ten minutes.”
I hang up, clutching the phone to my chest, staring up at the dark sky. The stars blur through my tears.
Pregnant.
How could I have let this happen?