I’m trying. Really, I am. I’m trying to keep the smile on my voice, but there’s only so much I can do about my scent.
I’m pregnant. I’m going to give them the child they’ve always wanted. And then, in a year, I’ll return to my life before I knew Pack Anders existed.
Why did I put up that fucking ad? Why did I agree to have a sit down with them?
Why did I agree to this fucking arrangement?
Because you didn’t think your heart would feel anything more than happiness for them and joy over the number in your bank account.
Now that reality has come crashing in, I’m struggling to smile for them, to accept their hugs the congratulations from the doctor and nurses.
It’s Saturday,officially one day after discovering I’m carrying my first child.
A child I agreed to hand over after he or she is born.
Sure, I can stay a part of their life, but it’s not like I’ll be sleeping in the same house as them, not like they’ll see their parents as a pack.
Maybe if I bring up a few of my newest concerns? Although, they’re not really that new to me. It’s something I’ve been dwelling on, especially when I’m alone and have nothing else to do but think.
Would they let me remain in my quarters and my room? Would they allow me to coparent right beside them?
I mean, they did say they’ve never been interested in adding a beta or omega, so it’s not like they’ll need my room for someone else.
Amy has made a huge breakfast, leaving the overflowing platters on the island instead of crowding the kitchen table.
“We should have done this in the dining room,” she grumbles as she plops her hands on her hips and surveys the variety.
She’s made pancakes and waffles, eggs, bacon, sausage, milk gravy, toast, biscuits, and even cut up fruit and beautifully arranged it on a tray.
Yet…my appetite is waning.
If they’ve detected the change in my scent, they’ve either attributed to my hormonal change or haven’t mentioned it.
Can they not feel my conflicting emotions through the bond? Are they so absorbed in their own joy they’ve completely ignored the fact I’m…
Well, I’m kind of depressed.
And now I feel like an asshole.
I knew exactly what I was getting into when I agreed to this. Today is supposed to be a celebration. This is something they’ve waited twelve fucking years for, and I have no right to dampen their spirits.
Pushing to my feet, I make my way to the island.
“I’ll get it,” Des says, putting his hands on my shoulders and guiding me back to my seat. “Tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you,” he says, pressing gentle kisses along my cheek before straightening.
His one-day stubble scratches against my skin as he continues to nuzzle my cheek. Through a giggle, I say, “I can get my own plate, Des.”
“I know you can, but I want to do it. Then later, we’re going shopping. Oh, and Mason is having a new vehicle delivered.”
“I never picked the one I wanted,” I say with a faux pout. Seriously, though, any new car is fine with me. Doesn’t mean I’ll be getting rid of my Honda, but who wouldn’t want something safe, sleek, and luxurious?
“After the baby’s born, you can pick another one, a backup to this one,” Mason says, and I turn wide eyes and raised browson him. Did he seriously just suggest he planned to buy metwobrand new cars?
Also, I might be reaching, but it kind of sounded as though he likes the idea of me being safe even after I’ve given birth. That’s a win, right?
After giving Desmond my request for breakfast, I sit back and really focus on the alphas.
Since we’ve only had weekends together, that time has generally been spent with them doting on me, snuggling me, holding me while we watch TV or movies.
