Page 78 of Evan and the Alpha

“Sobek?” he asks, his voice soft and muddled with sleep. He hangs onto the corner of the wall with one hand, the other slung over his belly, cradling our child. He is such a good omom already.

I grunt in reply. His hand slides off the wall and, for a second, he disappears into the shadows of the room. A moment later, he re-emerges into the light, slowly sinking down on the pillow beside me. “Are you coming to bed?” he asks, then looks around. “What’s the time?”

“Late,” I reply without verifying. “Yes, I’ll be along to bed shortly.”

Evan sighs and rubs at his belly. “It’s okay, I guess,” he murmurs. “I’m up for a little bit now anyway.”

“Oh?” I look at him curiously, watching as he nods.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Baby woke me up.” He looks up at me. “I can feel him moving in me.”

I frown. Evan looks dumbfounded for a second, then laughs lightly. “It’s a good thing,” he says, then lifts a hand to stifle a yawn. “I needed to pee too. And I’m hungry.”

He sighs heavily and I laugh lightly. This has been our little ritual the past few nights, although Evan hadn’t mentioned feeling the baby moving before. “Would you like something to eat?”

He gnaws at his lower lip for a second. “Yeah,” he agrees, then slowly pushes back to his feet. It looks like it takes effort. I wonder how he’s supposed to maneuver for another five moon cycles or so, especially if he keeps getting rounder.

I pat his back, then get to my own feet. “Go relieve yourself. I’ll look to a snack.”

“Ugh, you’re the best. Thanks.” He pads off in search of the chamber pot—we never leave it in the chamber; we take it out to rinse it and forget it near the door or in the kitchen. I head into the kitchen and poke the fire that’s been smoldering in the pit back to life. It rarely goes out, although we try not to stoke it during the heat of the day. The flames provide light to see by, and I grab a knife and some melon, intending to sear it over the fire. Evan’s increasingly fond of the melon. He insists humans must eat more than meat or they get sick.

I hack up the melon and skewer it, setting it over the flames to sear; the heat brings out the flavor. Next, I find some day-old flatbread, opening it to fill it with bite-sized morsels of meat. Evan showed me that trick; we’ve agreed it is very good.

As I ponder what else to offer my pregnant mate, Evan wanders back. Apparently the pot was near the door. “Took it to the bedroom now,” he murmurs, then grabs one of the little “sandwiches,” as he calls them. “Mm, thanks. Smells good.”

“Do you want eggs?” I ask, and he shakes his head.

“’M hungry, but not that hungry,” he mumbles around a mouthful. “I had dinner.”

I nod, then pull the melon off the fire. “Do you want those warmed up?” I nod at the sandwiches.

“Nah,” he says, and I swat at him when he reaches for one of the melon slices.

“It’s hot; you’ll burn yourself.”

“But I’m hungry,” he whines, then stuffs his mouth full of sandwich. I shake my head at him.

We say nothing more until he’s finished; the food is almost gone and I’m about to ask if he wants more when he stretches his arms up, then drops his hands and rubs his belly—his signal he’s satisfied. I’ve had to learn that, because most kroakka will just go on eating for quite some time, then not eat for several days.

“Bedtime?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You’re coming with me?”

I nod. “After I put the fire to bed.”

“’Kay,” he says, then leans up on his toes and plants his lips against my cheek. His hand slides off my shoulder. “Don’t keep me waiting.”