Page 56

Callum

T wo days after claiming, I've been noticing things about Lila that have me on edge.

Her scent's been different, still her green apple and white musk, but there's something else underneath it now.

Something sweet and warm that I can't quite identify.

At first I thought it was just the claiming bites settling, the way pack bonds sometimes shift scent profiles, but it's been getting stronger.

Then there's the tiredness. Yesterday I found her curled up on the couch at two in the afternoon, fast asleep with a book open on her chest. She'd been embarrassed when she woke up, insisting she was just relaxing, but I could see the exhaustion in her eyes.

And this morning she'd been pale over breakfast, pushing her eggs around her plate instead of eating them. When Dean asked if she was feeling alright, she'd insisted she was fine, just a little under the weather.

Maybe it's nothing. Maybe the claiming has taken more out of her than any of us realized. But my instincts are telling me something's off, and when she mentions needing a doctor's appointment for a routine checkup, I'm relieved.

"I'll take you," I say, not really making it a question.

She looks up from her coffee—which she's barely touched, I notice—with that soft smile that still catches me off guard sometimes. "You don't have to, I know you have work. I can call a cab or ask Dean to borrow the fire department truck."

"I want to," I say simply, because it's true. But also because I want to hear what the doctor says, want to make sure whatever's been making her tired and changing her scent isn't something serious.

Taking care of her feels as natural as breathing now, especially with the claiming bites fresh on her throat making every protective instinct I have more intense. And if something's wrong, if she's sick or the claiming affected her somehow, I need to know.

The drive to the clinic is comfortable, Lila humming along to the radio while I navigate the mountain roads.

She seems relaxed, happy, occasionally reaching over to squeeze my hand or comment on something she sees out the window.

The domesticity of it. Driving my woman to her appointment, being the person she relies on for practical things,makes something warm settle in my chest.

"Just a routine checkup," she says as I park outside the small medical center. "Shouldn't take long, just wait here."

"I'll be here," I tell her, though part of me wants to go in with her. The claiming has made me more possessive, more protective, but I'm trying to keep it reasonable.

She leans over to kiss me softly before getting out. "Thank you for driving me. I love you."

"Love you too," I say, watching her walk into the building with that easy grace that draws every eye.

An hour later, she comes out looking... different. Not upset, exactly, but dazed. Like someone just told her something that rearranged her entire world view.

"Everything okay?" I ask as she settles into the passenger seat.

"Perfect," she says, but there's something in her voice. Wonder, maybe. Or shock. "Everything's perfect."

She's quiet on the drive home, but not in a bad way. More like she's processing something big, working through implications. I give her space to think, though my instincts are on high alert trying to figure out what's changed.

By the time we get home, Dean's already started dinner, something elaborate involving fresh pasta and herbs from the garden Julian planted. The kitchen smells incredible, and Dean's humming while he cooks, which means he's in his element.

"How'd the appointment go?" Julian asks, looking up from where he's setting the table with characteristic precision.

"Good," Lila says, settling into her usual chair. "Really good."

But I can see her watching us, like she's planning something. There's anticipation in her posture, excitement she's trying to contain.

Dinner is Dean's grandmother's recipe for chicken alfredo with fresh vegetables, and it's perfect like everything he makes. We fall into our usual rhythm—passing dishes, easy conversation about our days, the comfortable domesticity that still feels like a miracle.

"So," Lila says as Dean serves dessert, "I've been thinking about our next house project."

"The back porch extension?" Julian asks immediately. "I've been researching permits and materials."

"Actually," she says, her fingers drumming against the table in a nervous rhythm, "I think we need to focus on the spare room upstairs."

I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. The spare room has been storage since she moved in, filled with boxes and furniture we haven't found places for yet.

"What's wrong with the porch extension?" Dean asks, looking confused. "You were excited about having outdoor dining space."

"Oh, we'll still do that," she says quickly. "But the spare room is more urgent. We have about seven months to get it ready."

Seven months. The timeline hits me first, then Julian, who goes very still beside me. Dean's still looking confused, trying to work out why seven months matters for a spare room.

Then Lila's hand moves to her stomach, just for a second, but Dean catches it. His fork clatters to his plate.

"No way," he breathes, his eyes going wide with wonder.

"Way," she says with a grin that's pure joy.

Julian makes a sound like he's been punched, his analytical mind clearly putting together doctor's appointment plus seven months plus hand on stomach.

"You're pregnant," he says, wonder in his voice.

"Ten weeks," she confirms, looking at each of us in turn.

"Remember when I stopped taking heat suppressants and scent blockers?

I didn't realize those medications also helped stabilize hormonal contraception.

I had that three-month injection, but when I went off the other meds.

.." She pauses, her hand moving to her stomach.

"That first heat with all three of you was so intense, it basically burned through what was left of the contraceptive in my system. "

She looks a little sheepish. "I was actually going to the doctor today to talk about contraception options since the injection was due to wear off soon anyway. But when I mentioned some symptoms I'd been having..." She trails off with a smile that's pure joy.

The silence that follows is profound. Then Julian and I are both moving, reaching for her at the same time, and she's laughing as we pull her into our arms.

"A baby," Julian says against her hair, his voice thick with emotion. "Our baby."

"Our baby," I agree, the words feeling surreal and perfect at the same time.

The claiming bond lets me feel her joy, her excitement, her absolute certainty that this is right. That everything has worked out exactly as it was meant to.

"Are you okay?" I ask, my hands already moving to her stomach, protective instincts going into overdrive. "Do you need anything? How are you feeling?"

"I'm perfect," she says, laughing at my immediate shift into caretaker mode. "Healthy, happy, absolutely fine."

"But you should be sitting down," I say, guiding her back to her chair. "And eating more protein. And?—"

"Callum," she interrupts gently, her hand covering mine. "I'm pregnant, not made of glass. Everything's fine."

But my mind is already racing through everything that needs to happen. Doctor's appointments to schedule, the spare room to convert, baby-proofing, making sure she has everything she needs.

"This explains everything," Dean says with wonder, his hand joining mine on her stomach. "Why you've been tired, why your scent's been different."

"The nausea on the plane," Julian adds, his analytical mind cataloging symptoms. "I should have realized."

"It's still early," she says softly. "But everything looks good. Healthy heartbeat, right on schedule for conception during that heat."

The heat where she'd been insatiable, where we'd knotted her over and over, where the biological imperative had been so strong none of us could think straight.

It makes perfect sense now. Her body responding to being with alphas she trusted completely, overriding artificial hormones in favor of natural pack bonding.

"It was meant to be," she says quietly, like she's reading my thoughts. "All of it. Meeting you, falling in love, the claiming, now this. Everything happened exactly when it was supposed to."

She's right. Looking back, every step has led us here to this moment, this family, this future we're building together.

Over the next few days, I find myself watching her constantly. Not because I don't trust her to take care of herself, but because the knowledge that she's carrying our child has intensified every protective instinct I have.

When she reaches for something on a high shelf, I'm there before she can stretch. When she starts to lift a box of books, I take it from her hands. When she mentions being tired, I'm already suggesting she rest.

"Callum," she says on the third day, exasperation clear in her voice as I take a bag of groceries from her before she can carry it inside. "I'm pregnant but I can carry groceries."

"Heavy things aren't good for?—"

"One bag of groceries is not heavy," she interrupts, hands on her hips. "Big guy, I'm fine. I can walk and carry things and live my normal life."

"But what if?—"

"What if nothing," she says firmly, though her expression softens. "I love that you want to protect me, but you're going to drive yourself crazy if you try to wrap me in bubble wrap for the next seven months."

She's probably right, but the urge to shield her from everything, heavy objects, uneven sidewalks, loud noises, anything that might potentially be harmful is almost overwhelming.

"The baby—" I start.

"Will be fine," she finishes, reaching up to cup my face in her hands. "Because they have three devoted fathers who love them and a mother who's going to take excellent care of herself. But that doesn't mean I need to be treated like I might break."

The claiming bond lets me feel her patience, her love, her amusement at my overprotective tendencies. She understands why I'm hovering, even appreciates it, but she needs me to trust that she knows her own body.

"Okay," I say, though every instinct protests. "But if you need anything?—"

"You'll be the first person I ask," she promises, rising on her toes to kiss me softly. "I love you, Callum. And I love that you want to take care of us."

That night, as she curls against my side in our bed, my hand finds her stomach automatically. It's still flat, no sign yet of the life growing inside, but knowing it's there makes something fierce and tender settle in my chest.

"I'm going to build them the most amazing nursery," I say quietly.

"I know you will," she murmurs sleepily. "You're going to be an incredible father."

Father. The word still feels surreal, but in the best possible way. In seven months, we'll have a baby. A tiny person who's part of all of us, created from love.

I fall asleep with my hand on her stomach and my heart full of plans for the future we're building together.