Page 38 of The Careless Alpha
"Of course we did," Mrs. Walker said firmly, rising from her seat. "Birthdays should be celebrated, especially important ones like this."
"Besides," added Tom with a grin, "any excuse for cake, right?"
They gathered around as I made a wish and blew out the candles. The cake was simple—vanilla with chocolate frosting—but it might as well have been the most elaborate creation fromthe finest bakery. These people had taken time out of their day to make sure I didn't spend my eighteenth birthday alone.
This is what family feels like,Sapphire said wonderingly.Not obligation or hierarchy. Just... love.
"Thank you," I managed, accepting hugs and birthday wishes from people who'd become more important to me than they could know.
"There's one more thing," Rita said when the crowd had dispersed and we were cleaning up the impromptu celebration. She handed me an envelope. "From all of us."
Inside was a gift certificate to the local maternity store, along with a card signed by what looked like half the town. The messages were simple but heartfelt:"Congratulations on your new life." "You're going to be a wonderful mother." "Welcome to the family."
"I can't accept this," I said, overwhelmed.
"You can and you will," Rita said firmly. "That baby's going to need clothes, and you're going to need support. That's what families do for each other."
After I finished my shift, I headed to my appointment with Dr. Harrison at the Crescent Bay Medical Center. At sixty-five, he was semi-retired, but he'd agreed to take me on as a patient when Rita had called in a favor. His gentle manner and genuine concern had made the terrifying prospect of navigating pregnancy alone feel manageable.
"How are you feeling, Annalise?" he asked as he reviewed my chart.
"Good. Better than I expected."
"The morning sickness has settled?"
"Mostly. I still get queasy sometimes, but nothing like those first few weeks."
He nodded, making notes. "That's normal for the second trimester. You should start feeling the baby move soon, if you haven't already."
"I think I felt something yesterday. Like butterflies, but stronger."
Dr. Harrison smiled. "That's exactly what it feels like at first. Over the next few weeks, those movements will become more pronounced." He set down his pen and looked at me directly. "I have to ask—have you given any thought to contacting the father? I know you said he wasn't in the picture, but now that you're eighteen, you have more legal options if you need support."
Contact Marshall? The man who'd called me a whore and banished me from pack territory. The man who'd rejected our mate bond and threatened to set warriors on me.
"No," I said firmly. "He made it very clear he doesn't want anything to do with us."
Dr. Harrison studied my face with the sharp eyes of someone who'd been treating patients for forty years. "I see. Well, you have a strong support system here in Crescent Bay. That matters more than biology sometimes."
I walked out of Dr. Harrison’s office into the bright afternoon sun, my hand resting on my belly. The doctor’s reassurances were a comfort, but his question about the baby’s father had stirred up a familiar ache. I was eighteen today, a legal adult in the human world, but I had never felt more like a child playing house, trying to build a future from scratch.
Pushing the thought away, I headed for Brady’s Hardware. The small apartment above the diner was my haven, but it was stark. I wanted to paint it, to create a real nursery nook for my son. A soft, buttery yellow, I thought. Something warm and hopeful.
The hardware store smelled of sawdust, metal, and the faint, earthy scent of fertilizer from a display near the back. It was a comforting, practical smell that grounded me. Tom was behind the counter, helping a fisherman find the right gauge of wire for his lobster traps. He looked up as I entered, and a genuine smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“Annalise. Good to see you. Everything alright?” his voice was a low, gentle rumble.
“Everything’s fine, Tom. I was just hoping to look at some paint.”
He finished with his customer and then came around the counter, his work boots making soft thuds on the old wooden floor. “Big plans?”
“Just for my room,” I said, feeling a warmth rise in my cheeks. “For the baby’s corner. I want to make it nice.”
He led me to the paint swatch display, a rainbow of possibilities. His movements were slow and deliberate, the gait of a big man who was careful not to intimidate.
“This one,” I said, my finger tracing the edge of a soft yellow swatch called ‘First Light.’
“Good choice,” he said, pulling it from the rack for me. “Warm. Cheerful.” He leaned against a sturdy shelf of toolboxes, crossing his thick arms. His expression was kind, but his eyes were searching, seeing more than I was saying. “You getting everything you need? For the little one?”