Page 6 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
“Exactly. Men have been doing that for years and we still don’t trust most of them.”
Presley went quiet for a second, then laughed softly. Not because it was especially funny, but because she knew what I was doing. Taking the sharp thing and putting a ribbon on it. Making it smaller before it could swallow me.
“You always do that,” she said.
“What?”
“Make me laugh when I’m trying to worry about you.”
“That’s called efficiency. You get emotional range and entertainment. Some people pay extra for that.”
“Maeve.”
“Presley.”
“You know being funny doesn’t mean you’re fine.”
The words landed with annoying accuracy.
I looked at Fergus, who was now glaring at the window as if the wind owed him money. “No, but it does mean I’m not boring, and I think we can all agree that’s important in a crisis.”
“You’re doing it again. You’re hiding. Yes, you’re in a city now and not in a caravan park, but you’re still—”
“I’m surviving, Presley. Being a single mother will be easy compared to what I’ve been through.”
“I’m coming to visit.”
“Can you wait until after the baby is born, please? I need to earn some money before he comes along.”
“I can send you some money.”
“No.”
Presley sighed. “Okay.”
“I have to go. Work calls.” I hung up before she could say anything else. Before the crack in my voice widened into something I couldn’t tape shut.
And before she got to tell me her news.
I could call back, but chose to set the phone face-down on the mattress because I didn’t trust myself not to call her back. Calling Presley back would mean admitting she was right, andthat would make me cry. Crying would mean my nose would block up, and when my nose blocked up, I couldn’t smell anything, and that was dangerous for an omega.
So I didn’t cry. I’d gotten good at that.
I hadn’t cried about my tiny home. How could I when I’d upgraded from a caravan? I hadn’t cried about my finances, despite having a childhood where I had it all. I had nearly cried about the lack of having a cot ready for my baby to sleep in, and obviously, because I have a heart, when I found Fergus soaked through and took him in. I really should cry about my growing cankles, and having to switch to decaf. But I was brought up in an Irish mafia household. We were taught to always be brave.
Rain now tapped against the window. Scotland had two weather settings, neither great. It was either rain or about-to-rain. But I’d chosen to live in Edinburgh because nobody looks for an Irish omega in a city where everyone’s scent is permanently damp. Even the alphas here smelled like wet wool.
The baby wriggled inside me. A gentler movement this time. A roll, hopefully just turning over in his sleep.
"We’ll be fine, won’t we?" I whispered, putting a hand where his foot was.
I looked at the coat hanging on the back of the door. The white fluffy coat. The one from Prague, the one that still smelled faintly of the same impossible blend I had spent nine months trying not to need if I buried my face deep enough into the collar, which I absolutely did not do every night before bed. That would be pathetic, and I wasn’t pathetic. I was a small business owner. I was a survivor. I was an independent omega who had fled a mafia ex, and three hot Russian alphas. I was doing just fine.
It was the same coat I’d found a credit card in the pocket when I fled Prague. I’m not proud that I used it to pay my hotel bill, the cab ride to the airport, and the food I ate at the airport because the three alphas had fucked me for days and I lacked fuel. ButI’ve never once used it since I returned to the UK. That would be stupid.
But I was so tempted.
I pulled the laptop across the duvet and opened the baby catalog to look at the checkout screen. I’d been staring at it on and off for three weeks. The same cot. The same car seat for taxi journeys. The same sensible changing mat with the machine-washable cover that cost sixty quid and looked like it might actually be capable of containing the biological chaos of a newborn.
