Page 113 of Knot on the Market

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 sostrong 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.

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