My pulse kicks, because she’s including me in something so small, so intimate, as though I belong here. I lean forward, letting her spoon-feed me the sample.
The flavor hits my tongue—creamy, garlicky, something earthy underneath. And then my stomach lurches violently.
I choke back a gag, hand flying to my mouth. “Oh no?—”
I stumble toward the sink, spitting into a napkin before it can go further. The nausea crashes over me so fast my eyes water.
“I’m so sorry,” I stammer, wiping my mouth, face burning. “I don’t know what?—”
Mrs. Maddox only chuckles softly, setting the spoon aside. “Oh, honey, don’t apologize. It happens.”
“I don’t understand,” I whisper.
My body feels foreign, traitorous. Just minutes ago, I was fine, and now I’m fighting waves of sickness from one spoonful.
She shrugs lightly, too calm, as though this is nothing new to her. “I used to get nauseous from certain tastes too. Garlic, especially. When I was pregnant with Levi, I couldn’t keep it down at all. Ginger ale helped a little.”
Pregnant. The word detonates inside me.
I freeze, staring at her, pulse roaring in my ears. Pregnant.
She doesn’t notice my stillness. She grabs a glass, cracks open a chilled bottle of ginger ale from the fridge, pours it until it fizzes to the brim, and presses it into my hand.
“Sip,” she says. “It’ll calm the stomach.”
I obey because my body moves on autopilot. The bubbles tickle my throat, sharp and sweet, and the nausea eases just enough that I don’t feel like collapsing. But my mind is spiraling.
Pregnant.
I’ve been taking the pills Simon prescribed—every morning. No excuses. No slip-ups. I’ve been careful because I know how high the stakes are with three Alphas. And yet?—
I sip again, nodding weakly. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says gently. “You’re fine, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it.” She pats my arm as if I’m one of her own kids, then slides the pot back onto the stove. “Come on, let’s bring these out.”
We walk back toward the dining room. She’s carrying the dish, and I’m clutching the glass of ginger ale like it’s a lifeline.
The table is already set: wine glasses filled, silverware gleaming, napkins folded into neat triangles. The Maddox family home has that lived-in charm, not fussy, but warm, where you can tell countless meals have been shared across this table.
Everyone is waiting, voices low and easy. Beau looks up as soon as I sit, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You okay, sweetheart?”
I nod quickly, forcing a smile. “I’m great.”
His brows pinch like he wants to press, but he lets it go when Levi’s mother settles in with a flourish of serving spoons.
Plates are passed around, laughter picking up as Beau tells a story about Pancake trying to steal a sandwich off his counterthis morning. Levi’s father chuckles, then asks Simon about the flu that had gone around recently.
“It’s managed now,” Simon says smoothly, sliding me a plate. He looks calm, the doctor in him showing, though I catch the faint exhaustion shadowing his eyes. “I’ve seen fewer cases this week. We’ll keep monitoring, but I think the worst is over.”
And just like that—like the strike of lightning—it hits me.
The flu.
The week before the festival. When I was sick, when I was so nervous I couldn’t hold anything down. I had thrown up so much that I couldn’t remember keeping water in my stomach, let alone a pill.
My heart slams hard against my ribs. What if I didn’t keep it down? What if my body rejected the birth control pill?
Heat floods my skin. My palms are slick with sweat. My vision blurs at the edges as I force another sip of ginger ale, but it doesn’t settle me this time. It only churns with the panic building inside.
