Page 7 of Broken Pregnant Mate
“Good morning, Aidan.”
I turn and wave to Brock, the general store owner, before taking off down the street.
Running is not an essential part of my training routine—in fact, I know that it’s probably not the best way to use my energy. If I want to be able to fight Jerrod Blacklock, I’ll need to be explosive, quick, strong, and strategic.
I will not need to run away.
After I engage in the fight with him, I’ll either win or die.
But the running isn’t about the physical training—it’s about getting my energy out. Working it out of my system, being so tired that my constant thoughts can’t catch up to me, sparks the growing ball of anxiety in my chest.
I turn right past the pack hall and keep running, the pounding of my sneakers against the ground lulling me into a state of calm. When I near the front of the pack hall, I see Dorian and a few other guys standing out front, and Dorian waves me over.
“Hey,” I wheeze, realizing I might have been running a bit too hard. I’m already exhausted and have a lot more training to do today, but I always want to appear helpful. Even if I were at his service for the rest of my life, I’d never be able to pay Dorian back for what he’s done for me. “What’s up?”
“Go on,” Dorian says, turning to the other shifter standing there, who has a slightly panicked and wild look in his eyes.
“But—” he starts, but Dorian shakes his head, waving him off.
“I’ll cover it myself if I have to.” Dorian actually grabs his arm, turns him around, and points him north, then says, “You get to your wife, man. I know you’re scared—don’t even try to lie, I can feel it—but you have to be there for her. Trust me, it will be the longest and slowest hour of your life, but you need to be present for it. And remember, it’s a million times worse for her. She’s the one doing the work.”
The guy swallows, then nods, taking the first step in the direction Dorian has pointed him.
When Dorian seems satisfied that he’s following instructions, he turns back to me, letting out a breath.
“His first,” he explains, like that really means anything to me. Then, running a hand through his hair, Dorian says, “You ever wanted to work a shift in our jail?”
***
“We don’t keep violent prisoners down here. Only the manageable ones who haven’t had the chance to make their case. Some potential self-defense cases. We tend to be a little more lenient with the Omegas, especially since they can be compelled.”
I blink, glancing down the long hallway, which looks more like a nursing home than a prison. I’ve been here before—in fact, I’ve been on the other side of those clear walls, sitting in one of my own plush cells.
Back then, when I’d first arrived on the border, I didn’t think they were ever going to let me out, and that was fine with me. But then Dorian did let me out—and he did more than that. He started to trust me. Started to let me into the pack.
“I’m glad,” I joke, leaning against the desk as Dorian pulls out a chart, laying it over the surface. “Not sure I would have survived against violent offenders in my state.”
Dorian glances up, his eyes serious when they land on me. His eyes are always serious—maybe that’s a product of being the alpha leader.
A flicker of nervousness rises in my stomach, and I force it back down, not wanting to think about what it will be like when I’m the alpha leader of the Grayhides, when I have to be as serious as he, when I feel the weight of logistics and planning and talking people through their first pregnancy.
Dorian holds his stare on me for a long moment, then lets out a quick chuckle and looks back down at the chart.
I know he wants to ask about the state I was in when I first showed up at the border—he’s wanted to ask about it since that first day, when I was apprehended and he came down into that bunker to question me.
But I don’t want to talk about it.
In fact, I don’t even want to think about it. Not in any concrete way.
The days, weeks, I spent outside of my body, sure that I was going to die. Puking my guts up in the desert, gritting sand between my teeth, thinking about only one thing to get me through the experience.
“These are the initials of the inmates, along with their essential information.”
“Okay,” I say, leaning over to look at the chart. Then, with a smirk, I glance up at Dorian. “What essential information did you write for me? Impossibly handsome?”
“Smart-ass, actually,” he says, his voice monotone even as he grins, closing the chart. “Lunch will come down on a cart at eleven, just pass it out and make sure to collect the trays. Try not to talk to them too much—some of them can be tricky. I know Trenan struggles with that part of the job.”
Dorian sighs, puts the chart away, and taps his phone in his pocket. “If you have any trouble, just call me. If I don’t answer, call Emin.”
