“He is home,” Mason argues, his eyes on his phone as he no doubt reads an email or text from either a junior partner or yet another client. The fucking work is never ending.
“He’s going to need our pheromones,” I say as I climb from behind the wheel and walk through the garage.
“Then he’ll call, and we’ll spend some time at his apartment,” Mason says as he follows me into the house.
“Right. I’m sure he’ll send out an SOS for some alpha pheromones. Oh, and no doubt we’ll be available at the drop of a hat. I mean, look at how much free time we have now,” I deadpan.
Anger is building in my system, turning my stomach, and sending adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Over-the-top reaction to such a simple statement from my mate, but my instincts are all over the fucking place. Whether Mason wants to admit it or not, Hudson is ours. And fuck him if he wants to dissolve his bond – I’m keeping mine.
I just have to figure out how the hell to convince Hudson to stay with us even after the child is born.
You’re selfish as fuck.
I sigh at my own inner chastising. Because my subconscious is right. Expecting him to be here, raising our child and waiting for any spare moment we might be able to give him is selfish. He had a life before us and we expect him to simply uproot everything to, what, hold the furniture down all day, every day?
Doesn’t matter how many visits he gets from Ella; she’s a fellow omega. It’s even more imperative now that he’s pregnant that he receive an alpha’s pheromones.
I’m half tempted to pack a bag and invite myself to stay at his house until either I convince him he belongs with us –Mason’s opinion be damned– or until the baby’s born.
Then what? No way could I walk away from either of them, even if Hudson decides he’s not parent material. He’s still mine. We’ll raise our son or daughter and hire a nanny for when we’re not home.
Or hell, I’m sure any member of my or Des’s family would be overjoyed at the prospect of babysitting our first child.
Sorrow squeezes my heart. I’m making plans for a future that is so fucking unsure. A future with an omega who chose to return to his own apartment rather than sleep beside us in the pack bed.
Not that I can blame him.
I’m also thinking about hiring nannies to raise our child since we work so much. Just like with Hudson, we’ll barely have any time for our own kid.
What the hell were we thinking? Parenthood sounds great in theory, but it’s a completely different animal when reality hits.
Nothing we can do about that now. Our child will be here in nine months. Or is it ten? I swear I read somewhere the weekly countdown is closer to ten months.
However long it is, we’ll have a little baby girl or boy in our lives who will rely on us for its survival. More than simply its survival – I plan on doting on my child the same way my parents did with all of us.
Poor Mason is the only one of the three of us who didn’t have a dream upbringing. Not that his was technically a nightmare, but he couldn’t say he has a clue how having loving, affectionate parents feels.
What will our child say about us in the future?Yeah, they were great, but they were never home. Good thing I had a nanny.
A heavy sigh leaves my chest as I make my way through the house and to my bedroom. Normally, I would shower off the day, ensure there are no lingering scents of omegas or betas from the office.
What’s the point? Hudson isn’t here. His omega instincts won’t be rattled. And my mates were around the same people as me. There will be no possessive urges, no questions or accusations.
The only instincts that will be off will be mine. Ours. Alphas without their omega.
Worse. Alphas without theirpregnantomega.
You know what? Fuck this. Mason and Des can do whatever the fuck they want. I need to be around Hudson. Even if he demands I sleep on the couch, at least I’ll be under the same roof, in the same house, and I’ll know he’s safe.
I’m stripping before I’m even fully through my bedroom door, tossing my clothes on the floor as I go. I’ll pick them up later. Or Amy can deal with them. Part of the reason we pay her, after all, is to keep our house clean when we work entirely too many hours.
The water isn’t even warm when I step under it, scrubbing at my skin and hair in cold ass water before stepping out and dragging a towel over my body.
When I drag on a pair of sweats and a hoodie – without bothering with a t-shirt underneath – they stick to my still damp skin.
Don’t care. I’m on a mission, damn it.
