Chapter 210
Asher
The soft cotton towel comes out of the warming drawer at exactly 104 degrees Fahrenheit—I checked twice. Blake shoots me an exasperated look through our mind link, but I don't care. Kara's still shivering slightly from the bath, her skin pebbled with goosebumps despite the steam still clinging to the air.
Wolves rarely get sick, I remind myself, wrapping the heated fabric around her shoulders with hands that want to shake. But she's carrying my heir. Our heir. And she just survived—
I cut that thought off before it can spiral. Focus on what I can control.
"Arms up, baby," Blake murmurs, and she complies without protest, too exhausted to fight us. We work in silent coordination—me supporting her weight, Cole gently patting her legs dry, Blake carefully avoiding the bruises that still mark her wrists. The bandages we applied earlier are already showing faint pink spots where her accelerated healing is pushing out the damaged tissue.
She doesn't even flinch when Cole's fingers brush the healing scratches on her ankle. The Kara from three days ago would have jerked away, trapped between wanting our touch and fearing it. This Kara just... accepts. Trusts.
It terrifies me how much that matters.
Tomorrow we get Dr. Harrison to prescribe prenatal vitamins, I think through the link, already mentally cataloging everything she'll need. Full nutritional assessment. Meal plan optimized for wolf pregnancy.
Blake's response comes with a hint of amusement cutting through his lingering arousal. We need to convince her to eat healthier. At least during the pregnancy. Chocolate chip cookies are going to be strictly rationed.
I pause mid-motion, the pale blue silk pajamas—Cole's choice, specifically designed for pregnant omegas—dangling from my hand. You can't deprive my baby of chocolate chip cookies, Asher. Especially when my baby is carrying my baby!
The automatic correction slips out before I can stop it. Our baby.
Cole's mental voice joins in, warm with affection despite everything we've just been through. Blake's right, though. A handful of chocolate chip cookies a day keeps the blues away. It's science.
I want to argue, but Kara chooses that moment to lean her full weight against my chest, and the feel of her—alive, safe, ours—drives every other thought from my mind. Still, I manage to inject some reason into the link. I didn't say eliminate them entirely. I said limit her intake to one standard serving or less. Excessive sugar during pregnancy can lead to gestational diabetes—
Fine, fine, Blake concedes. Limits I can live with. But we're not making her unhappy.
We reach a silent agreement through the link: Kara gets her chocolate chip cookies in reasonable quantities, but we'll strategically place healthier options—fresh fruit, nuts, protein-rich snacks—within easy reach. If she's going to snack mindlessly while studying, it might as well be something that nourishes both her and our child.
The silk pajamas slide over her skin like water. Cole chose well—the fabric is soft enough not to irritate, loose enough not to constrict, and the pale blue brings out the silver undertones in her magnolia-and-snow scent. She looks... delicate. Precious.
Fragile, my wolf supplies, and I have to wrestle down the urge to wrap her in cotton wool and never let her leave this room.
She's asleep before we even get her to the bed.
---
Blake moves first, scooping her up with the kind of careful reverence usually reserved for handling explosives. Through our bond I feel his wolf crooning—safe, protected, ours—even as his human side battles the memory of her bruises, her blood, the way she'd looked when we'd found her.
I force myself to turn away, to give them space. "I need to shower."
Like hell you do, Blake shoots back through the link. You're going to stand there and make sure she's breathing every thirty seconds.
He's not wrong. But I also desperately need to wash off the last seventy-two hours—the fear, the failure, the scent of that underground prison that still clings to my clothes.
"Five minutes," I compromise. "Cole goes first."
Cole's already moving toward the bathroom, but he pauses at the door. Through the link, I catch the edge of his thought—She needs all of us close—before he disappears inside. True to form, his shower lasts barely sixty seconds. He emerges with his dark hair still dripping, wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips.
I raise an eyebrow. "You sure you actually got clean?"
He grins, unrepentant. "Clean enough. Your turn, control freak."
Blake snorts through the link. He's got a point. You're going to take your full five minutes and probably use them to reorganize the shower caddy by height.
The products should be arranged by frequency of use, I argue, already heading for the bathroom. It's more efficient.
Their combined laughter follows me inside, warm and familiar despite everything. Or maybe because of everything. We're all running on fumes and adrenaline and the desperate need to keep Kara in our sight, but we're together. We found her. She's safe.
I allow myself the full five minutes—not to reorganize anything, though the impulse is there—but to stand under the spray and let the scalding water wash away the parts of the last three days I can't afford to carry into tomorrow. The scent of Diana's facility. The memory of that empty feeling where Kara's presence should have been in our bond. The taste of failure and fear that still coats my tongue.
When I emerge, Blake and Cole have already claimed their positions on either side of the bed, leaving the middle space conspicuously empty. Kara's curled on her side, the blue silk pajamas already rumpled, one hand tucked under her cheek like a child. The sight of her—small and trusting in the center of our bed—does something painful to my chest.
"Tonight you're on the outside," Blake announces without looking at me, his attention fixed on Kara's sleeping face. There's no heat in his voice, just exhaustion and a bone-deep need to be close to her.
I don't argue. The sleeping arrangement rotates—it's only fair—but tonight I'm grateful just to be in the same room. I slide in behind Blake, positioning myself so I can still see her face over his shoulder. Even in sleep, she looks tired. Worn. But alive.
She's safe, I remind myself, and finally—finally—let my eyes close.
The reprieve lasts approximately four hours.