I pee on the stick. I set the timer. I wait.
The seconds crawl like spiders. I hear Harper murmuring outside the door, keeping my mates at bay. I hear Kylian’s voice rise in panic, then Ridge’s low rumble calming him. I hear Luka’s medical terminology and Colter’s soothing grunts.
The timer chimes.
I look down.
Two lines. Pink and unmistakable and perfect.
My knees buckle. I catch myself on the counter, a sob ripping from my throat—joy and terror and five years of hoping, of pretending I was okay when I wasn’t, of watching my mates stare at me with careful eyes after each negative test, each disappointment.
I’m pregnant.
I’mpregnant.
I stumble out of the stall, the test clutched in my hand like a talisman. Harper sees my face, and her eyes fill with tears, but she just opens the door and steps aside, and suddenly they’re there—my four mates, my four reasons for breathing, the loves of my fucking life, crowding the doorway with their fear and their love and their wild, desperate hope.
“What is it?” Ridge demands, his voice wrecked. “Brylee, please?—”
I hold out my hand. The test sits in my palm like an offering, like a promise.
The world stops.
Luka’s medical bag hits the floor with a thud. Ridge’s phone slips from his fingers. Kylian’s hand flies to his mouth. Colter—Colter drops to his knees right there on the tile, his big frame folding like a house of cards, his face crumpling as he stares at the two pink lines.
“You’re—” Kylian starts, and his voice breaks. He tries again. “You’re?—”
“Pregnant,” I whisper, and then I’m laughing and crying at the same time, the sound borderline hysterical. “I’m pregnant. I thought…I thought it was a virus, or the salmon, or stress, but I’m?—”
I don’t get to finish.
Luka reaches me first, his hands framing my face, his thumbs wiping tears I didn’t know I was still crying. “You’re sure? You’re… Brylee, are you?—”
“Two weeks late,” I sob, leaning into his touch. “Two lines. Harper brought the test. I’m sure. I’m?—”
Ridge makes a sound like he’s been punched in the chest, and then I’m surrounded, engulfed, pulled into the center of them like the eye of a storm. Colter’s arms wrap around my waist from where he kneels, his face pressed to my stomach, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Kylian’s hands are on my back, his forehead dropped to my shoulder, his breath hot and wet through my blouse. Ridge cups my face. His thumbs trace my cheekbones, his own tears falling freely. Luka holds my hand against his heart, which beats wild and fast and alive.
“Five years,” Colter chokes out, his voice muffled against my abdomen, his mask pushing at the fabric of my shirt. “Five years of trying, of hoping, of?—”
“I know,” I whisper, my fingers finding his hair, holding him close. “I know.”
“We’re going to be fathers,” Ridge says, wonderstruck, his tears dripping onto my wrists. "All of us. We’re going to?—”
"Be terrible at it." Kylian laughs wetly, pressing kisses to my shoulder. "We’re going to be overprotective and paranoid, and I’ll get yelled at for teaching our baby how to stab someone and?—”
“Amazing," Luka finishes, lifting his head, his eyes red-rimmed and radiant. “We’re going to be amazing. You’re going to be—” He stops, swallows hard. “You’re already amazing. You’re perfection, and I thank the universe every damn day for bringing you to us.”
I look at them—my men, my family, my everything—and I think of the girl I was years ago, pretending to be my brother and sneaking into Eros Academy. Everything’s changed since then.I’vechanged. I didn’t know then that hearts could grow, that they could stretch to hold more love than seemed possible.
“I love you,” I say, because it’s the only phrase big enough, the only anchor in this ocean of joy. “I love you, I love you, I?—”
Colter stands, his hands cradling my face, and he kisses me—soft and reverent and full of promise. Then Ridge, his tears salty on my lips. Then Kylian, laughing against my mouth. Then Luka, drowning me in his love.
Harper clears her throat from the doorway, her own face a mess of mascara and joy. “Should you tell Teddie he’s going to be an uncle? Or should I let you all compose yourselves first?”
I look at my mates—at their wrecked, beautiful faces, at the way they’re already touching my stomach like it’s sacred ground—and I laugh, the sound bright and free and full of the future.
“Let’s tell him,” I say, and Colter’s hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining. "He’s going to need a bigger castle. Our future son or daughter deserves at least a wing. Maybe two. But definitely, at minimum, ten bedrooms.”
