Page 19 of Knot Your Baby

“She had the perfect scent once...” My voice comes out harsher than intended. “She was perfect. Her platinum blonde hair, beautiful pale green eyes and the way she looked at me as I knotted her.”

“I thought Maya had blue eyes,” Miller says.

“Must have been the overhead lights.”

“Anyway, she’s not mine. But hopefully, one day, we’ll agree on the same omega.” Miller studies me for a moment before continuing. “I want to settle down. I think you do. Maybe when we have an omega, Zane will respect your wishes because he doesn’t want to upset his omega.”

I laugh, but Miller continues, “I don’t think he’ll want to put himself in harm’s way if he had one.”

“And how do you know that?”

Miller’s shoulder sag as he turns and looks into the distance. “I don’t—I just hope I’m right, for all our sakes.”

Chapter 6

Freya

The phone’s shrill ringtears through blissful sleep. Only my third decent night’s sleep after months of tossing and turning.

“One more night. I just wanted another full night’s sleep.” Dr. Miller was right about ditching the scent blockers. Since I came off them three days ago, I finally doze off each night and wake up feeling energized.

I fumble for the phone, my growing baby belly making every movement a challenge.

I swipe and groan, “Hello.”

“Ms. Rose? This is the building management. I have to inform you there’s a fire on Madison Street. And—”

My heart stops. “My bakery? Is my bakery—”

“The entire building is affected, but the fire department has already responded. We’re hoping some shops will survive the blaze. Yours might be saved.”

“Oh my God. I’m on my way,” I say, already swinging my legs over the bed, cursing under my breath.

“Ermm. You should let the fire department deal with it. There is nothing to do but find your insurance documents.”

“Thank you.” I disconnect, go to the bathroom, and have a quick pee.

After washing and drying my hands, I stare at myself in the mirror for a few seconds. My pink pajamas stretch tight across my stomach. And I know I should dress in something civil, but I’m not getting changed. It’s the middle of the night, and I don’t have the time or the inclination. Every second counts.

I rush from the bathroom, grab my car keys from the kitchen counter, and rush toward the front door, where I slide my feet into the ratty sneakers. The ones I keep by the door for quick grocery runs.

“Stupid elevator.” I glare at the out-of-order sign as I push on the door to walk down the stairs.

For six weeks it’s been out-of-order.

For six weeks I’ve hauled my pregnant belly up and down these steps.

The baby kicks me, protesting at the sudden activity and the speed I’m finding from somewhere. Today, I am exceptionally quick.

“Please don’t let my bakery be burned down. Please—” The words spill from my lips as I waddle-rush down the stairs.

“I turned everything off, right?” I always check the ovens three times. “The coffee makers were unplugged...”

I’m sure I did, but Harlow came to visit again and distracted me with her constant chatter of the baby—or more specifically—the future dad.

I did turn everything off.

I’m sure I did.

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