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“Have you told them we’re expecting?” Sorin asked as they came in through the door.
Edmund, who was just beyond the entryway investigating the sitting room, whipped around and stared at them, eyes wide. “I beg your pardon, Papa?”
“Guess that answers that question,” Sorin chuckled.
Bertram laughed and pulled him close, kissing the top of his head, and Sorin allowed himself to relax against him—to enjoy him. It was still such a novel sensation.
What a strange and wonderful thing it was to be a family again.
What a strange and wonderful thing it was to be home.
31
Sorin
“Well, this confirms it,” said Dr. Everard Drake as he palpated Sorin’s pelvis. “You certainly are pregnant. I’d wager you must be a good two months along. You’re feeling quite full in there.”
Sorin didn’t need a doctor to tell him that—both his new baby bump and his truncated heat had done excellent jobs confirming he’d conceived—but a thrill of pleasure ran up his spine regardless.
“Are they healthy?” he asked, craning his neck to look down at his body. On his back like he was, his bump didn’t look like much, but when he was upright it became apparent. Not overly obvious, like it was for omegas with late-term human pregnancies, but round enough that his pants didn’t quite button anymore, and certainly round enough for Bertram to take notice. He’d been utterly insatiable, which suited Sorin just fine, because he hadn’t exactly been good at keeping his hands to himself, either.
Pregnancy hormones were no joke.
It was nothing short of a miracle Everard had found them in a decent state of dress when he’d shown up for his house visit today.
Everard—blissfully unaware how close he’d come to discovering his brother naked and in bed with his oversexed mate—hummed thoughtfully at Sorin’s question, pressing inward with his fingers. A trickle of magic flowed from them, questing curiously into Sorin. It did not hurt, but Sorin was set instantly on edge. He dropped his head onto the pillow and turned to look at the bedroom door, seeking Bertram out, but found another Drake standing there.
Sebastian.
He crowded the doorway with his back to the bedroom, looming over Bertram, who was just barely visible on the other side. It seemed they were engaged in tense but quiet conversation. Sorin couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but between Sebastian’s body language and the fact he’d come to their home uninvited, he could infer it.
And it wasn’t good.
“They’re as healthy as eggs can be,” Everard said, pulling Sorin out of his head just enough for him to realize that an old, familiar darkness was rising up inside of him. His magic, once placid, began to roil, and as his worry crept its way toward panic, it woke the dormant voices in his head. The discordant trills of his missing children. The shrillness of their screams. “All of them are viable. Their heartbeats are strong and…” Everard paused. “Shotgun shell, are you quite all right?”
No, he wasn’t. Not at all. But he mumbled out an, “I’m fine.”
“You do not look fine.” Everard’s magic stopped, and quite suddenly he appeared in front of Sorin, peering down distrustfully at his face. “You’ve gone awfully pale and appear to be in some kind of discomfort. Are you in pain? If you are, for the health of the eggs, it’s essential you tell me now.”
“No, I—”
As Sorin tried to explain himself, Everard set his open palm on Sorin’s forehead, sending an exploratory burst of magic through Sorin’s head. It was not inherently painful, but it was unexpected, and Sorin did not have time to prepare himself for the onslaught of memories it triggered.
Copper in his mouth.
The drag of sharpened steel where it never should have been. Cutting. Scoring. Wet warmth trickling over his skin. The sound of dripping, knowing what it was but not wanting to know. Fire in his veins. Crimson in his eyes.
His vision blurred around the edges, then blacked out entirely. Only a second passed—was it only a second?—but when he snapped back to the present, his chest was heaving, and he was gripping Everard’s wrist with such force his knuckles had gone white.
Everard was still looking down at him, his eyes now the size of dinner plates.
“Are you afraid of doctors?” he asked, voice thin with shock. With a twist of his arm, he rescued his wrist from Sorin’s grasp and rubbed the places Sorin’s fingers had made raw. “We are sworn to heal, not hurt, you know. There is no reason to be afraid. Although I suppose you were at the mercy of that old quack Unwin for several months, and I can only imagine how wretched an experience that had to be. Not even I could tolerate him for any length of time, and that was as his equal. What happened to you must have been infinitely worse.”
Everard frowned, thinking it through, then added, “Yes, I do think all of that makes a lot of sense. Your reaction was in no way typical, little cherry bomb. It speaks to trauma of some sort—something much worse than generalized discomfort.” His face softened with sympathy. “You have been through a lot, haven’t you?”
Sorin dropped his hand, turning his head to look beyond Everard at Sebastian.
He said nothing, but his silence was loud.
