Page 39 of Broken Pregnant Mate
But, as time goes on and I get to know these people more, I find myself letting little pieces out. Pieces of my past, of who I am now. Little fragments that I’ve been trying to keep inside.
To Dorian’s credit, he doesn’t react outwardly to this little piece of me, the sad fact that I hardly grew up with toys at all, let alone with the batteries to put in them. Instead, he just nods, grunts, “Makes sense,” and turns to answer a question coming from a different partygoer.
I sigh in relief and look down at the toy in my hand, realizing one of the twins—Oliver or Noah, I can never really tell—is still standing to my side, his hand on my thigh, looking up at me and waiting for me to finish assembling his toy for him.
Working quickly, I pop the back out, get the batteries in, and watch as the thing lights up before I hand it back to him.
“There you go,” I laugh, watching as his little face lights up in pure wonder and joy. It makes something in my chest flutter, and not for the first time, I think about what it would be like to have a kid.
But I shut the idea down quick.
There are enough things wrong with me that I know I’d be a terrible parent. I’ve barely managed to keep myself put together now, let alone in the future when I have an entire pack to run. I won’t even have time for myself or a mate. Let alone an entire family.
My chest pangs, and I push the feeling away, grateful when Kira appears, smiling at me.
“I have to say, Aidan,” she grins, stirring her lemonade with a glass straw and beaming at me. “Emaline is really something special. Beth said her gift is quite strong, and she’s funny, too.”
“Oh.” I swallow, wonder what the right response is when someone compliments your fake mate. For all the world, I want to answer with,yeah, I know.
Kira just smiles and pats my arm before disappearing again.
The only thing I want to do is go home, talk to Emaline. I think about what Oren said, him thinking that I’ll beat his dad.
And I think about Emaline last night, standing up to me, demanding that I listen to what she wanted, instead of deciding for her.
Maybe keeping up this lie, the ruse of having another mate, is just a continuation of that. All those years ago, when I left without her, I thought I was doing what was best for her, but I was really just taking her agency away, not letting her make her own decisions.
I cut her out of my life, and I can’t stop thinking about what things might have been like if I’d let her come with me.
She never would have gone to the border, never would have fallen into a bad crowd with Verner and his guys. Emaline wouldn’t have had to spend all that time in jail, and I might have made it through the desert faster with someone to help me.
Maybe arriving at the border with her would have made the situation different. Maybe the shifters there wouldn’t have been so hostile, capturing me roughly the way they did.
I can’t let myself think about it, so I find ways to keep myself busy.
Outside, when I see Emin struggling with the bouncy house, I move to help, grabbing the sides and wrestling with the vinyl as it collapses in on itself. Thankfully, the task is difficult enough that he’s not trying to talk to me. The air whistles outthrough the motor, and I have to duck as a section nearly smacks me in the face.
I can smell Emaline somewhere behind me, the scent of her hanging in the air like perfume, floral and light, so, so sweet.
Each time I catch it, my wolf stirs, restless and wanting, only thinking about the next time I can have her. I force myself to focus on the task at hand, methodically folding the now-flat bouncy house into a more manageable rectangle, sliding it into the rough canvas sack. My hands work automatically, muscles straining with the effort.
When I’m hauling the bouncy house into the garage, I see Dorian crouched down, talking to one of the boys gently.
“We’ve had a lot of fun today,” he says. “But now it’s time for bed.”
I try to put the bouncy house away quietly, but Dorian looks over and sees me.
“Hey,” he says, jerking his head toward the house. “I need to get Noah ready for bed—you want to carry Oliver up for me?”
My throat goes tight. The last thing I want to do is carry his son, get myself more entrenched in this family when I’m lying right to their faces, but I just swallow away the feeling and nod.
Dorian has done so much for me. Carrying his son upstairs and putting him to bed is the least I can do in return.
I find Oliver knocked out on the couch, a toy in his left hand and his right dangling, limp, over the other side. It makes me laugh as I scoop him up gently, supporting his head.
I know from caring for the kids at the home that he’s old enough now that he can support his own head, but I do it anyway, pulling his sleeping body close to me.
Dorian speaks softly to Noah, who is nodding off in his arms and looking pissed off about it. We climb the stairs and turn left, into what must be the twins’ room.
