She shifted in her seat, and I caught a clearer view of her profile. The scar on her neck had faded to silver, visible when she turned her head just right. My mark, carved away in anger and political necessity, now just another wound I’d inflicted. But underneath it, I could see her pulse beating steady and strong.
The need to go to her, to kneel beside that booth and beg forgiveness, was so strong I actually started to rise. Carlton’s hand on my arm stopped me, his grip firm enough to bruise.
“Not here,” he said quietly. “Too public. Too many witnesses.”
He was right, but logic felt impossible when she was right there. So I threw caution to the wind as I stood up from my seat and made my way to her table. I had no idea what I was about to say or how this was going to go.
All I knew was my pregnant mate, was right here, and I was not going to let her get away this time.
24
— • —
Rhea
Sunday evenings at the Millbrook Diner had become sacred time, the kind of routine that made exile feel almost bearable. I sat across from Wayne and April in their usual booth. The chicken and dumplings April had insisted on ordering steamed in front of me, comfort food I could actually keep down despite the twins’ increasing demands on my digestive system.
“Found a crib at the thrift store yesterday,” April announced, pulling up photos on her phone with the excitement of a woman who’d waited thirty years to be a grandmother. “Real maple, just needs some refinishing work. Wayne’s already planning to sand it down this weekend.”
Her weathered fingers swiped through images of a wooden crib that had seen better decades but showed good bones beneath layers of scratched paint. The enthusiasm in her voice mademy chest tight with emotions I couldn’t afford to examine too closely. These people had known me for mere weeks but spoke about my unborn children like treasured grandchildren already claimed.
I forced another spoonful of dumplings past the emotion lodged in my windpipe. The thick gravy coating my tongue tasted like safety, like the kind of nurturing I’d grown up taking for granted. Before exile taught me how precious such simple kindness could be.
“You don’t have to do all this,” I managed, though the words came out rougher than intended. “The expense, the effort...”
“Nonsense,” April waved away my protest with flour-dusted fingers that spoke of a lifetime spent feeding people. “Babies need things. Good, solid things that will keep them safe and warm. That’s what family does.”
Family. The word hit like a physical blow, beautiful and painful in equal measure. These people had absorbed me into their small unit without question, without demands for my history or explanations for my scars. They’d simply seen need and moved to fill it, creating space in their childless lives for the pregnant woman who’d stumbled into their orbit.
Wayne caught my expression and his own softened with understanding. “April’s been collecting baby items since she found out. Got a whole nursery’s worth of supplies in our spare room.”
The image of April Garrett, a woman I’d known for less than a month, quietly accumulating infant necessities in preparation for children she’d never birthed made tears threaten. I blinkedthem back, focusing on the practical warmth of dumpling broth instead of the emotional warmth these people offered so freely.
She’d avoided asking about gender, about paternity, about any of the details that would have satisfied normal curiosity. Instead, she’d focused on the practical necessities of new life, preparing for grandchildren she’d claimed through choice rather than blood relation.
“There’s a changing table too, solid oak. Wayne reinforced the safety straps last weekend.” Her voice carried pride in her husband’s handiwork, the kind of comfortable partnership that came from decades of shared projects.
I watched Wayne nod along, adding commentary about corner guards and outlet covers, and felt the familiar pang of loss for the mate who should have been having these conversations. Damon should have been the one researching safety standards, planning nurseries, preparing for the children he’d unknowingly created. Instead, strangers filled the role he’d abandoned through political necessity and personal choice.
The diner around us hummed with activity. Families finishing dinner, workers grabbing coffee before night shifts, teenagers nursing sodas and dreams of escape from Millbrook’s limitations.
Millie refilled my water glass with practiced efficiency, her comfortable bulk moving between tables with the grace of someone who’d worked these floors for decades. She’d stopped asking if I needed anything else, having learned that pregnant women changed their minds about food every five minutes.
“Drink up,” April commanded gently. “You need the fluids, especially carrying two.”
The twins had become real to these people in ways they sometimes didn’t feel real to me. April spoke about them like individuals already, planning for their separate needs and distinct personalities. Wayne had measured twice for crib placement, accounting for the space requirements of dual infants.
I pressed a hand to my belly where movement rippled beneath skin grown tight with their growth. Twenty weeks had brought increasing activity, little flutters that reminded me constantly of the lives developing inside.
“They’re active tonight,” I murmured, feeling the familiar tap-tap-roll pattern that had become their evening routine. For these precious moments, I wasn’t an exiled murder suspect carrying forbidden children. I was just an expectant mother surrounded by people who cared about her well-being.
That’s when I felt the presence behind me.
The sensation started as wrongness, like atmospheric pressure dropping before a storm. My wolf stirred beneath my skin, growing sensitive with pregnancy, recognizing the threat in ways my human senses hadn’t yet processed. The hair on my arms rose despite the diner’s warmth.
Wayne’s entire posture changed. His glass of water froze halfway to his lips, eyes going sharp and alert in a way that reminded me he’d survived forty years in a town that ate the weak. His gaze fixed on whatever stood behind my booth, and the color drained from his weathered features.
“Rhea,” a voice said, and my world tilted sideways.
