Page 59 of The Buck Stops Hare

And deep down?

I didn’t think she’d be back.

And that was okay.

The family Rayne started—we were finishing.

Bound by land, not blood.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Buck

Cliff’s large frame wore the swell of pregnancy relatively well.

With a large-enough hoodie and an omega’s natural tendency to carry small, he was able to work the entirety of his pregnancy. But when he woke that morning, the sharp pain in his eyes told me that he’d not be working that day, or the days coming.

Despite his lack of consent, I tapped into his body, taking his sensations into myself. There, his tough exterior and natural tendency to try andbe a maninterfered with his ability to communicate.

“Babe, I’m going to call Lincoln, is that okay?” I had my phone in my hand quicker than I realized as he rolled over in our bed, bathing in the dim dawn light and cutting around the curtains.

He opened one eye and nodded, rolling onto his side to stuff a pillow between his legs and bundle into the blankets. The warmer weather coming in hadn’t assuaged his chill, so blankets stayed piled on our bed even through a delightful sweat.

I willed clothing into existence on my body and found my hat by the bed. I dusted it off before stuffing the worn leather into place.

Despite my burgeoning excitement, I wore the exhaustion of guilt over River and the newness of sleep to my body. It must have been plain in my voice when Lincoln answered my call, stifling a yawn.

“Hello?” His raspy groan finished with a grunt of strain, as if he were getting out of bed. “We have problems or solutions?”

“Solutions, I assume. He’s starting.” I cast my gaze back to the bed and tapped into his pain again, relishing the harsh twisting sensation deep in his belly. He bore it so quietly for me.

“On my way.” Lincoln hung up the phone, and I went about helping Cliff from bed and giving him a hot shower to languish in. With him stooped under the steaming flow, I went back into the bedroom and spread old blankets and a waterproof sheet they’d given me.

Lincoln arrived before Cliff had left the shower, helping me set up with towels and things wordlessly.

Where Rayne had had an audience of sorts, Cliff wanted to do it with just the three of us, and we’d tell the world when our little boy or girl was here.

I’d wanted to know, but the only one of us that could was Brook, and I held too much guilt to ask him. Too much guilt. Cliff was certain we were having a boy though. The thought didn’t seem wrong, but we’d gotten some of Hail’s old things he’d outgrown and the essentials. Formula, too. Cliff, as much as he was accepting the pregnancy, hadn’t seemed comfortable with nursing.

I wouldn’t push him, but he did pump some colostrum in the days prior, and we’d quietly give that to our little one and decide if pumping would be an option. I was prepared for it not to be.

As I held my phone and Lincoln quietly petered about, I did something I probably shouldn’t have. I texted Brook, as we’d been in regular contact about the pregnancy. It made him hope for River, and I let him know.Cliff’s in labor.

Send pics of baby.He added a smiley emoji, and I went in search of Jacque.

He peered up at me, a sock sliding off his ear as he rose from our laundry basket. Despite his own sleeping basket being in a warm and safe corner, he preferred sleeping surrounded by our scent, and when he couldn’t be in the bed, he chose there. SinceJacque liked Cliff’s lap and there was decidedly less lap every day…and the baby routinely kicked…the hare had somewhat kept a distance.

Mean baby.He clicked his teeth at me when I offered him salad and earned a bark of interest.

Being cheeky, I snapped a pic of Jacque covered in laundry and sent it to Brook.

Nice, but not the baby I was hoping to see.

I fixed Jacque an extra-special salad, loading it down with fresh spring dandelion greens, chopped apples, and banana on the side.

When I returned, it was just in time to see Cliff pushing out of the bathroom, a robe wrapped around him tightly, his dark hair in loose stringy curls over his forehead. Short on the sides but a thick handful I could grip on top. Even billowing—especially billowing—with my child, he did something painfully arousing to me, but I kept it down to respect his pain.

He gave me a grunt of acknowledgement and shuffled to bed. Lincoln helped him shuck the robe and cover his chest and hips with a blanket. Every move he made was tender and methodical, tainted with his own reservations.

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