But as I sat with Danny warm against my side, our child active beneath my palm, surrounded by the people who’d become our family in every way that mattered, the last of that uncertainty finally faded away.
This was real. This was ours. This was—
“Mine,” Danny said softly, his hand coming to rest atop mine on his stomach. “You’re thinking so loud I can practically hear it. Whatever it is, just say it.”
I turned to look at him, at the man who’d changed everything with a single smile, who’d shown me that life could be about more than survival. The firelight caught in his hair, turned his eyes to molten gold, highlighted the curve of his mouth that I’d never tire of kissing.
“I’m thinking that I love you,” I said, the words still new enough to send a thrill through me each time I spoke them. “That this—all of this—is more than I ever thought I’d have. That I’d burn the world down to keep you safe.”
Danny’s smile was soft, understanding. “I know,” he said simply. “Me too.”
The conversation around us had faded to a comfortable murmur, Hooper’s guitar providing the soundtrack to our private moment. In the firelight, with Danny’s weight warm against me and our future spread out before us like the vast Montana sky, I finally allowed myself to believe it was real.
It was a good place to call home. Our home. Finally.
Chapter Twenty
~ Danny ~
I stood back to admire my handiwork, hands resting protectively on my swollen belly. Sterling’s room was finally perfect—the last space in our new home to be properly settled.
The morning light streamed through the east-facing windows, just as I’d promised him it would, casting golden patterns across the simple navy bedspread I’d chosen.
Not too fussy, nothing that would make him uncomfortable, but still homey enough to say “This is yours. You belong here.”
The nightstand was bare except for the lamp and the single framed photograph I’d just placed there. It had taken weeks to find the perfect one—a candid shot Rawley had snapped. Burke and Sterling standing side by side, their identical profiles outlined against the sunset, heads bent toward each other in conversation.
Neither was smiling—Sterling never did—but there was something in the way they leaned toward each other, comfortable in a shared space, that made my heart ache.
I picked up the frame, running my thumb across the smooth glass. These two men, so similar and yet so different. Both had saved me in their own ways. Burke with his love, his strength, his unwavering belief that I deserved better than the life I’d known. And Sterling with his silent protection, his fierce loyalty, his willingness to stand between us and any threat without question or hesitation.
“What do you think, little one?” I murmured, my free hand caressing my belly where our son had been unusually active this morning. “Think your Uncle Sterling will approve?”
A sharp kick answered me, pulling a soft laugh from my lips. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
I returned the photograph to its place, angling it just so, then stepped back once more to take in the whole room. The dresser Burke and I had found at an estate sale, refinished in rich walnut. The bookshelf stocked with titles Sterling had mentioned in passing—military histories, wilderness survival guides, and the dog-eared copy of “The Old Man and the Sea” Burke swore was his brother’s favorite, though Sterling would never admit it.
It wasn’t much, this offering of four walls and a bed, but it was what we could give—a place that was his and his alone, whenever he needed it. No expectations, no demands. Just belonging.
A dull ache spread across my lower back as I turned to leave the room, pulling a grimace from me. These last few weeks of pregnancy had been increasingly uncomfortable—back pain, swollen ankles, the constant pressure that made walking feel like a major athletic achievement. Dr. Winters had assured me it was all normal, especially for a male omega pregnancy, but that didn’t make the discomfort any easier to bear.
“Two more weeks,” I reminded myself, rubbing slow circles into the small of my back. “Just hang in there two more weeks.”
Burke had been reluctant to leave me alone this morning, but the fence along the north pasture needed repair before the coming storm, and everyone was pitching in. I’d practically had to shove him out the door, walkie-talkie in hand, assuring him I’d be fine for a few hours.
“Call if you need anything,” he’d insisted, pressing the device into my palm. “I mean it, Danny. Even if you just want company. I can be back in ten minutes.”
I’d rolled my eyes but accepted the walkie-talkie, touched as always by his protective instincts. Now, though, I realized I’d left it somewhere—the kitchen, maybe? Or the living room? I couldn’t remember setting it down.
I made my way slowly down the hallway toward the stairs, one hand braced against the wall for balance. At thirty-eight weeks, my center of gravity was completely shot, my body an unfamiliar landscape dominated by the basketball-sized protrusion that had once been my flat stomach.
I was halfway down the stairs when the first real pain hit.
It wasn’t like the Braxton Hicks contractions I’d been experiencing for weeks—mild tightening sensations that came and went like waves. No, this was a knife of white-hot agony that sliced through my abdomen, stealing my breath and buckling my knees.
I gasped, gripping the banister so tightly my knuckles turned white. For a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but ride the wave of pain that consumed every nerve ending in my body.
And then, as suddenly as it had come, it receded, leaving me trembling and breathless on the stairs.
