We did the math later. Turns out, when you spend three days snowed into a cabin with three alphas during an unexpected heat—when you’re too desperate and toofullto remember anything as practical as protection—consequences happen. I was already pregnant when they bonded me. We just didn’t know it.
“Surprise,” I’d managed when we figured out the timeline.
“Best surprise,” Ben had corrected, pressing his forehead to my belly. “Best damn surprise of my life. Though I’m adding this to the list of things your clipboard didn’t plan for.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” He’d grinned up at me, that infuriating, irresistible grin. “You love me. You loved me so much you let me knock you up during a blizzard.”
“That’s not how biology works.”
“Details.”
Now I’m six months along, massive, and sharing a house with three alphas. The perfectionist event planner who color-coded her entire life, living with a man who thinks “we’ll figure it out” counts as a plan.
And I’ve never been happier.
The sound of a saw drifts up from the workshop, and I feel Elijah’s contentment pulse through the bond—steady and warm, like sunlight through glass. He’s working on the cribs. Two of them, hand-carved from local pine, with little bears along the headboards because I mentionedoncethat I thought the bear salt shaker at Millie’s was cute.
That was three months ago. He remembered.
I push myself up from the swing—three attempts, creative maneuvering, one hand braced on the armrest—and waddle down toward the workshop. My center of gravity is a joke now. My feet are a distant memory. But the path is worn smooth from all my trips down here to watch him work.
The door is open, letting summer air mix with sawdust. Elijah stands at his workbench, forearms flexing as he guides the wood, dark hair dusted with pine shavings. His scent wraps around me the moment I step inside—cedarwood and honey and something deeper, darker, that still makes my thighs clench even after six months of having him whenever I want.
He looks up when I appear in the doorway. His nostrils flare slightly, reading my scent the way he always does. Then the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” I lean against the doorframe, one hand on my belly. “Coming along?”
He sets down his tools and crosses to me, fitting his palms over mine on the bump. The babies kick against his hands, and his purr starts up—low and automatic, vibrating through his chest into mine.
“Active today,” he murmurs.
“They’refightingtoday. I think Baby A has a future in MMA.”
“Taking after Ben.”
“God, I hope not. One of him is enough.”
His almost-smile deepens. He leans down to press his lips to my bond mark, and I shiver as warmth floods through me. Even now, even pregnant and swollen and uncomfortable, his mouth on that spot makes heat pool low in my belly.
“Elijah.” It comes out breathier than I intended.
“Mm.” He doesn’t pull away. His tongue traces the scar tissue, and I grip his shoulders.
“I came down here to check on the cribs.”
“Did you.” His teeth graze the mark, and I gasp.
“The cribs are—” I lose the thread of the sentence when his hands slide from my belly to my hips, pulling me closer. Or as close as my stomach allows. “—very nice.”
“They’re almost done.” He’s purring louder now, the sound rumbling against my throat. “But I’m not.”
“We’re in your workshop.”
“I know.”
