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Six Weeks Later

Mia

“You should eat more,” Finn says from across the table, pushing the bread basket toward me. His gaze flicks down to my still-flat stomach, and I blush. “You need the calories.”

I roll my eyes but take a piece of sourdough anyway. “I’m eight weeks pregnant, not an invalid. The baby is the size of a raspberry right now.”

“Our little berry,” Jace says, grinning and reaching across the table to place his hand over mine.

“Please don’t call our child a ‘berry,’” Kane says with a small smile. “He’s going to be an alpha through and through.”

“Lighten up a little, jeez,” Finn growls.

“We still don’t know if it’s a boy or girl,” I remind Kane as I look at the menu.

Kane’s hand finds my knee under the table, squeezing gently. The simple contact sends warmth spreading through me, our bond humming with contentment.

“We should start looking at bigger houses,” Kane says afterwe’ve ordered, his thumb tracing circles on my knee. “With the pup coming, we’ll need more space.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Finn agrees, leaning back as the waiter places a glass of scotch in front of him. “Something with more land, further from the city. More secure.”

I take a sip of my sparkling water, surprised that they think their current home isn’t big enough.

“I mean, I’m happy where we’re at. But if you think we need a bigger home, I’m not complaining,” I say, and Kane’s hand tightens on my knee. “Somewhere with trees. And maybe a garden? I’ve always wanted to grow my own vegetables.”

“Ooh, I didn’t know you were interested in that,” Jace says, his face animated with the discovery. “I can see it now— you in your sexy overalls, dirt on your nose, as we rut you in the garden.”

“Excuse me?” I say, giggling at the image. “I’m going to be doing real work.”

“Real work is getting bred over and over,” Kane says, rubbing my belly and my pussy throbs.

“I’m already pregnant, though.”

“You’re going to get pregnant again very soon,” he growls, and butterflies swirl in my stomach at the thought. “Right after you give birth.”

The waiter brings our food, and I smile down at my plate, a strange fullness expanding in my chest. I feel so comfortable with my three men and the thought of the baby growing inside.

Halfway through the meal, I feel a sudden, urgent pressure on my bladder. Another fun pregnancy symptom—the constant need to pee. I place my napkin on the table and slide toward the edge of the booth.

“Excuse me for a minute,” I say, and three pairs of eyes immediately focus on me with varying degrees of concern.

“What is it, babe?”

“Bathroom,” I explain simply, grabbing my purse so I can hurry and pee.

“Do you want one of us to come with you?” he asks, half-joking and half-serious. My alphas were very serious about not letting me out of their sight for even a second due to their protective nature.

“To the women’s restroom?” I laugh, kissing his cheek quickly. “I think I can manage to pee on my own, thank you. I’ll be right back.”

The restaurant’s bathroom is as luxurious as the rest of the establishment—marble countertops, fresh flowers in small vases, and plush hand towels instead of paper.

I handle my business quickly, then wash my hands and study my reflection in the mirror as I dry them. My cheeks look fuller than they did a month ago, a subtle roundness that speaks of the changes happening inside my body. My breasts, too, have grown noticeably larger, straining against the confines of my bra. Kane, in particular, has been appreciative of that development.

I’m just touching up my lipstick when the bathroom door swings open, bringing with it a powerful scent that makes my nose wrinkle. It’s bitter and sharp, like over-brewed coffee mixed with a medicinal substance. The smell is so strong it momentarily overwhelms my heightened senses, making me blink rapidly to clear the slight dizziness it induces.

A tall woman steps into the bathroom, her long black hair falling in a sleek curtain to her waist. Her lips are painted a deep, vivid red that matches her fitted dress. She’s beautiful in a severe way that puts me on edge.

Our eyes meet in the mirror, and something flickers in her dark gaze—recognition, perhaps, or assessment. She moves to the sink beside mine, her movements fluid andgraceful, pulling a lipstick from her purse and uncapping it with manicured fingers.