“Good,” he said. “Good.”
He stood there a minute, then offered me his hand. I took it, and he pulled me into a hug that nearly cracked my ribs. He didn’t let go for a long time.
When he finally released me, he looked at Macon, still on his knees. “You going to take care of him?”
Macon’s voice was steady. “Always.”
Rawley’s lips twisted, and for a second I thought he might actually smile. “Better mean it, O’Reilly,” he said. “Or I’ll kick your ass myself.”
Macon nodded, and I swear there was a tear in his eye. He got up, slow and stiff, then reached for me. I stepped into his arms, and everything else faded out.
We stood there, the three of us, not sure what came next but sure that whatever it was, we’d face it together.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel invisible at all.
It should have been a punch line—two ex-military alphas and a half-starved, pregnant omega making it through a family meltdown with all limbs attached.
Instead, I just felt dizzy. The kitchen, which a second ago had been humming with electric tension, blurred at the edges, like someone had put Vaseline on my brain. I blinked twice, tried to focus, but the floor tipped sideways and the lights went weird and soft.
Macon noticed first. He caught me under the armpit, grip like iron, and Rawley’s hand shot out to stabilize my shoulder. Their argument evaporated. Both moved in with the unspoken choreography of people who’d done this before—probably on battlefields, or in kitchens, or maybe just picking up the pieces of broken people wherever they found them.
“Hey,” Macon said, voice low and sharp. “Hey, Carter, look at me.”
I tried, but my eyelids wouldn’t cooperate.
“Carter,” Rawley barked. “You with us?”
I nodded, then shook my head, which made no sense, but was the best I could do.
“You’re pale,” Macon said, concern drilling down to the bone. “When’s the last time you ate?”
I had to think. “Maybe… yesterday? I had a granola bar. In Idaho.”
“Jesus,” Rawley said, his voice cracking for the first time in my life.
Macon turned to Rawley, his expression stone. “Get water. And something salty, now.”
He guided me toward a chair, but my knees gave and I went down hard. Macon caught me in a fireman’s lift, one arm under my thighs, the other around my back. The world smelled like sawdust and his aftershave, and I clung to his flannel shirt, fingers tangled in the fabric.
“Easy,” he said. “Got you.”
He carried me down the hall and then up the stairs, feet silent on the old wooden floor, and I let my head loll against his shoulder. He didn’t put me down until we hit the guest room, the one with the quilted blankets and a window that faced the paddock.
He set me on the bed like I was breakable, then crouched in front of me, hands braced on my knees.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just lightheaded. I’m fine.” The lie was threadbare.
He shook his head, jaw working. “I should’ve noticed sooner. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t fix everything,” I said, even though I wanted him to try.
His eyes flashed with something that looked like guilt, then settled into a familiar protective gleam. “You need food. And sleep.”
Rawley appeared in the doorway, holding a glass of water and a fistful of crackers. His eyes were wide, and he looked, for the first time, like the big brother I remembered from childhood—a little scared, a little angry, but mostly worried.
He handed me the water, then the crackers, and I took both with trembling hands.
