I tried to call out, but another contraction hit, harder than the first, and I folded in half, hands clawing at the porch, unable to do anything but ride it out.
If my father had wanted to make a scene, he picked the wrong morning. Because there’s nothing like the sight of a six-foot-three alpha sprinting across the yard at full tilt, murder in his eyes and a sawdust-stained t-shirt clinging to his chest, to remind you who actually owns the ground you’re standing on.
Macon was on me before Harrison even processed the sound of my knees hitting the boards. He ignored my father completely, dropping down to my level so fast the porch shook, and caught my shoulders in his hands. The look on his face was a study in focus—part panic, part cold, operational calm.
“Talk to me, Carter. Where’s it hurt?”
“Everywhere,” I managed, though the word came out strangled. Another wave built behind my spine, sharper than before, and I tried to double up, but he held me steady, one palm cupped to my jaw to keep me upright.
Harrison hovered a few feet away, arms half-raised like he wanted to help but didn’t know which part of me to touch without contaminating it. Macon, ever the diplomat, didn’t even look at him. “What did you do to him?” he snarled, voice low and razor-sharp.
“I didn’t—” my father started, but the statement tripped over itself, lost in the roar of another contraction.
This one came in hot. My stomach knotted and my vision went white at the edges. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could barely stay on the right side of consciousness. I gripped the edge of the porch so hard my nails cracked.
“Jesus,” I wheezed. “It’s too soon—” The words broke off, replaced by a whimper.
“Hey. You’re okay.” Macon pressed his forehead to mine, hand at the back of my neck. He sounded calm, but I could feel his pulse through the skin—faster than mine, if that was possible. “You’re okay. Can you walk or do you want me to carry you?”
“Carry,” I croaked, not too proud for that.
He shifted, getting one arm under my knees and the other behind my back, and lifted me like I weighed nothing. The force of it knocked the breath from my lungs, but the pressure in my belly made every other sensation irrelevant.
Harrison tried to follow, but Macon just barreled past him, the heat of his body a shield against the June air.
We were halfway down the steps when the war cry of a diesel engine split the silence. Hooper’s Humvee—spray painted camo and missing at least two hubcaps—skidded to a stop in front of the house, dust boiling around it like a tornado made of bad decisions. The back door popped open and Hooper’s head emerged, wild and grinning, like the world’s least reassuring ambulance driver.
“Let’s go!” he yelled, already reaching to clear the seat.
Macon jogged to the car, set me gently inside, and climbed in after. Hooper was at the wheel, but not alone—Burke and Jackson crammed in the front, both barking orders and trying to wrestle the GPS into submission.
Behind us, Harrison caught up, breathless for the first time in his life. He reached for the door, but Burke leaned over and locked it.
“Sorry, sir,” he said through the glass, voice a honeyed mockery. “Family only.”
Harrison’s jaw worked, but before he could protest, Macon snapped: “Get in your car and follow if you want. But stay out of the way.”
Rawley appeared on the porch, Jojo at his side, baby slung to his chest in a blue wrap. He looked from me to Macon, then to my father, and the steel in his face was more intimidating than anything I’d ever seen in a boardroom.
“I’ll deal with this,” Rawley said, voice flat and final. “Jojo and I will hold the fort. Take care of Carter.”
I wanted to laugh, or maybe sob, but another contraction ripped through me, and the only sound I made was a broken gasp.
Hooper floored it. The Humvee rocketed down the drive, the jolt sending my teeth clacking together. Macon held me in the backseat, his arms an unbreakable band around my shoulders. His hand covered mine, fingers laced so tight they hurt, but I needed that pain to anchor me.
For the first half mile, I was lost to the world, riding the peaks and troughs of pain like a drowning man in open water. Every so often I’d come up for air—catch sight of the open road, the dust plume trailing us, the way Hooper drove as if the law of physics were more of a suggestion than a rule.
“Easy, Hoop,” Macon called, but his focus was on me. “Breathe. You got this. You’re stronger than this.”
I barked a laugh, sweat slick on my face. “Fuck you,” I said, but there was no heat in it.
“That’s my Carter.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, the softness at odds with the rest of his body, which was locked in a combat-ready coil. “Tell me what you need.”
“Drugs. Or a time machine. Maybe both.”
He actually smiled. “We’re almost there. Hooper’s breaking every speed record on the continent.”
Hooper whooped from the front. “Hang tight, buddy. I’m getting you there in one piece!”
