Page 112 of Knot on the Market

She looks up from her coffee—which she's barely touched, I notice—with that soft smile that still catches me off guard sometimes. "You don't have to, I know you have work. I can call a cab or ask Dean to borrow the fire department truck."

"I want to," I say simply, because it's true. But also because I want to hear what the doctor says, want to make sure whatever's been making her tired and changing her scent isn't something serious.

Taking care of her feels as natural as breathing now, especially with the claiming bites fresh on her throat making every protective instinct I have more intense. And if something's wrong, if she's sick or the claiming affected her somehow, I need to know.

The drive to the clinic is comfortable, Lila humming along to the radio while I navigate the mountain roads. She seems relaxed, happy, occasionally reaching over to squeeze my hand or comment on something she sees out the window. The domesticity of it. Driving my woman to her appointment, being the person she relies on for practical things,makes something warm settle in my chest.

"Just a routine checkup," she says as I park outside the small medical center. "Shouldn't take long, just wait here."

"I'll be here," I tell her, though part of me wants to go in with her. The claiming has made me more possessive, more protective, but I'm trying to keep it reasonable.

She leans over to kiss me softly before getting out. "Thank you for driving me. I love you."

"Love you too," I say, watching her walk into the building with that easy grace that draws every eye.

An hour later, she comes out looking... different. Not upset, exactly, but dazed. Like someone just told her something that rearranged her entire world view.

"Everything okay?" I ask as she settles into the passenger seat.

"Perfect," she says, but there's something in her voice. Wonder, maybe. Or shock. "Everything's perfect."

She's quiet on the drive home, but not in a bad way. More like she's processing something big, working through implications. I give her space to think, though my instincts are on high alert trying to figure out what's changed.

By the time we get home, Dean's already started dinner, something elaborate involving fresh pasta and herbs from the garden Julian planted. The kitchen smells incredible, and Dean's humming while he cooks, which means he's in his element.

"How'd the appointment go?" Julian asks, looking up from where he's setting the table with characteristic precision.

"Good," Lila says, settling into her usual chair. "Really good."

But I can see her watching us, like she's planning something. There's anticipation in her posture, excitement she's trying to contain.

Dinner is Dean's grandmother's recipe for chicken alfredo with fresh vegetables, and it's perfect like everything he makes. We fall into our usual rhythm—passing dishes, easy conversation about our days, the comfortable domesticity that still feels like a miracle.

"So," Lila says as Dean serves dessert, "I've been thinking about our next house project."

"The back porch extension?" Julian asks immediately. "I've been researching permits and materials."

"Actually," she says, her fingers drumming against the table in a nervous rhythm, "I think we need to focus on the spare room upstairs."

I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth. The spare room has been storage since she moved in, filled with boxes and furniture we haven't found places for yet.

"What's wrong with the porch extension?" Dean asks, looking confused. "You were excited about having outdoor dining space."

"Oh, we'll still do that," she says quickly. "But the spare room is more urgent. We have about seven months to get it ready."

Seven months. The timeline hits me first, then Julian, who goes very still beside me. Dean's still looking confused, trying to work out why seven months matters for a spare room.

Then Lila's hand moves to her stomach, just for a second, but Dean catches it. His fork clatters to his plate.

"No way," he breathes, his eyes going wide with wonder.

"Way," she says with a grin that's pure joy.

Julian makes a sound like he's been punched, his analytical mind clearly putting together doctor's appointment plus seven months plus hand on stomach.

"You're pregnant," he says, wonder in his voice.

"Ten weeks," she confirms, looking at each of us in turn. "Remember when I stopped taking heat suppressants and scent blockers? I didn't realize those medications also helped stabilize hormonal contraception. I had that three-month injection, but when I went off the other meds..." She pauses, her hand moving to her stomach. "That first heat with all three of you was so intense, it basically burned through what was left of the contraceptive in my system."

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