Page 2 of Broken Pregnant Mate
My chest tugs, reminding me of the person I left behind. Reminding me that for every second I’m here, training and not getting better fast enough, she’s in danger.
Behind me, Emin and Dorian start to pack up their stuff, chatting quietly, but Oren still sits silently against the wall, his eyes on me.
They’re always on me, probably because we both have our sights set on killing the same guy. Me, because the Blacklocks killed my entire family. Oren—well, probably because killing fathers runs in his blood.
When I turn around, my duffel slung over my bare chest, Emin looks up, catches my eye. “I know it’s hard to see from where you’re sitting, man, but you really have been improving. Think about it—that fight with Dorian went on for three whole minutes.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound more convincing than I feel. I’ve been sparring with Dorian once a week since I got here. The first time, he pinned me to the mat in three seconds and said he’d wait another month before fighting me again.
I nod, run my hand over my head, and watch the sweat spray out over the mat. Three minutes always feels like a long time, up until the moment Dorian gets me pinned. That’s the moment that, in a real fight against the rival alpha leader, I would die.
When I start toward the door, planning to head to the weight room, Dorian catches me by the shoulder, pulling me back.
“Where are you headed now?”
I bite my tongue, glance at the door. Dorian knows that I was lifting weights this morning, and he won’t like that I’m planning to go do more. He says I’m working myself too hard. I don’t see how that could be possible, since I still can’t hold my own against him.
Giving me a knowing look, Dorian says, “We’re having that thing over at our place. Kira made lemonade.”
Emin catches my eye, then lets out a low chuckle before he pushes through the door. Because Dorian knows he has me—knows I can’t turn down an invitation from him, and definitely can’t turn down food from his wife.
As much as I don’t want to go—don’t want to have to be my normal, charming self right now—I drag a hand down my face, meet the alpha leader’s eye, and ask, “What time?”
***
The moment I walk through the front door of Dorian’s house, I know it’s a mistake.
“Mommy!” One of the twins—either Noah or Oliver, I can never tell the difference—goes toddling through the living room and toward the kitchen, arms outstretched, a goofy, open smile on his face.
The thing about growing up in a group home—the modern version of an orphanage—is that you have a million siblings, and yet none at all. Kids move in and out of your life soquickly, sometimes you only know them for a few nights before they go back to their parents.
Every time I see the boys, they remind me of a kid who came to our group home for just a few nights. He was covered in bruises, wailing all throughout the night. I would sneak out of my bunk and into the babies’ room, picking him up and cradling him all night. Anything for him to be quiet. And, in my arms, he was.
Then, two days later, they sent him back to his parents.
The twin—I think it must be Noah—sees me and changes course, walking straight for me. I glance around nervously, waiting for another adult to snatch him up, make sure he doesn’t get too close to me.
“Hi!” he says, the word loose as he throws his body onto my legs, trusting me to catch him. And so I do, grabbing him under the arms, laughing nervously again, and looking around.
“Ah,” Dorian says, coming through the doorway with an empty pitcher in his hand. “I see you met the welcoming party.”
“Did a great job,” I say, as Dorian takes the kid from me and grins.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing with the pitcher. “Party is on the back patio.”
I follow him into the kitchen, where Kira stands in front of a large wooden platter, carefully arranging cuts of meat.
“Sorry,” she says to Dorian, reaching up and giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “I was just about to go after him. I didn’t think Ollie would get that far.”
So, not Noah, then.
Ollie squeals as Dorian does a curl-up with him, giving the kid a kiss on the forehead. “He’s fast, like his dad. Plus, you don’t have to apologize to me—Aidan’s the one who got ambushed. Been taking a beating from all the Fields today, huh?”
My cheek warms when Kira looks at me, assessing.
I came to this pack almost two years ago, walking over the border with nothing but a measly bag of Amanzite and a hope that Dorian wouldn’t murder me on the spot. My entire body was ravished with a fever, but I managed to convince him to let me stay.
At first, they kept me in the cells under the pack hall. Then, slowly, I’ve been let out. Now, I feel like a lot of the pack members here forget my last name.
