Oops… I Went Into Heat and My Alpha Daddies Claimed Me

KEISHA’S POV

"What?" I asked.

Nadia looked at her phone like she was checking it was still saying what it had been saying.

"Mara." She muttered. "She announced it the moment they got back to Coldridge apparently." She turned the screen toward me. "She’s pregnant."

I looked at the post on the screen. A photograph of Mara and Riven, her hand on her stomach, both of them smiling. The caption was something about new beginnings and blessings and the Coldridge Pack family growing.

I looked at it for a moment. "Okay." I simply said.

Nadia stared at me. "Okay?"

"Okay." I said again and I sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Keisha." She started.

"I heard you." I said. "Mara is pregnant. That’s—" I paused. "That’s their news. Good for them."

Nadia was looking at me with the expression she got when she was trying to read something. "You don’t have to pretend." She said gently. "It’s okay if it—"

"Nadia." I looked at her. "I’m genuinely okay."

"You loved him." She said. "You were with him for three years and now he’s having a baby with someone else and you’re—"

"Over it." I shrugged. "I’m over it." I looked at her. "I know that sounds—"

"Impossible." She rolled her eyes.

"It’s not impossible." I sighed, unsure how I wanted to explain. "It’s just true." I looked at my hands. "When I saw him this week I felt nothing except tired. Tired of the conversation, tired of the history, tired of him showing up and wanting something I don’t have to give him anymore." I paused. "The Riven part of my life is done. I mean that."

Nadia looked at me for a long moment. "Okay." She said quietly. "I believe you."

"Thank you." I said.

She looked at her phone again and put it face down on the bed. "Still." She said. "The timing of it. Announcing it the moment they got back. She wanted people to see it."

"She wanted me to see it." I sighed.

"Yes." Nadia said. "She absolutely did."

"Let her." I shrugged. "It doesn’t change anything for me."

Nadia looked at me one more time. Then she nodded, reached over, squeezed my hand once and let it go.

We sat in the quiet of the room and I thought about how strange it was that news which would have broken me four months ago could land so flat now.

We talked for a while after that about other things.

Eventually, Nadia fell asleep mid-sentence, which was something she had always been able to do — just close her eyes and be gone, fully and immediately, like sleep was something she could switch on at will. I pulled the blanket up over her, turned the lamp off and lay down on the guest side and stared at the ceiling.

I couldn’t sleep.

I lay there for an hour, then gave up and got up quietly and went downstairs for water.

The kitchen was dark when I pushed the door open.

Or mostly dark.

Someone had the hob light on, the small one over the cooker, and Callum was standing in front of it with a box of matches looking at the burner.

I stopped in the doorway.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

He looked up. His expression shifted into something that was almost embarrassed. "The ignition is broken." He sighed. "I was trying to light it manually."

"With matches?" I frowned.

"Yes." He said.

"At—" I looked at the clock on the wall. "Half past one in the morning."

"I was hungry." He said. "I didn’t want to wake Becca."

I looked at him standing there with his matches. "What were you going to make?" I asked.

"Pasta." He said.

"You cook?" I raised a brow.

He looked at me. "I cook." He replied with the mild offence of someone whose competence had been questioned.

"Okay." I came into the kitchen, went to the drawer beside the cooker, found the long nosed lighter at the back and held it out to him.

He looked at it.

"The matches are going to take forever." I told him. "This works better."

He took it and tried it. The burner caught immediately.

He looked at the flame, then at me. "Thank you." He muttered.

"What kind of pasta?" I asked.

"Whatever is in the cupboard." He said and he was already looking through them.

"Move." I raised a brow.

He looked at me.

"Move." I said again. "Sit down. I’ll make it."

"You don’t have to—"

"I know I don’t have to." I told him. "Sit."

He sat.

I found the pasta and the ingredients and started cooking.

The kitchen was quiet around us and Callum sat at the counter and watched me work with his chin resting on his hand and didn’t say anything for a while.

"Your sister." He said eventually. "How is she?"

I glanced at him. "Fine I think." I said. "We talked recently. She seemed okay." I paused. "She’s back in Coldridge now."

"With Riven’s pack." He said.

"Yes." I nodded and kept my eyes on the pan. "She found out tonight apparently. About Mara."

"The announcement." He sighed.

"You saw it." I looked at him.

"Dane told me." He said.

Of course Dane had told him. I stirred the pasta and thought about Lyra’s voice on the phone. All men are scum, she had said. Every single one.

"She’ll be okay." I finally said. "Lyra is tougher than she looks."

"Like her sister." He smirked.

I looked at him sideways.

He looked back at me steadily and I turned back to the stove.

"What kind of pasta is this?" He said, watching me add ingredients.

"Italian." I said. "Proper Italian. Not the kind from a jar."

"What’s the difference?" He asked.

I looked at him. "You said you could cook." I said.

"I can cook." He huffed. "I just don’t make pasta."

"What do you make?" I said.

"Things that don’t require precise timing." He shrugged.

"Everything requires precise timing." I said.

"Things that are more forgiving of imprecision." He smiled.

I pressed my lips together.

"What goes in this?" He said, nodding at the pan.

"If I tell you then you’ll make it yourself next time and not need me." I said.

He looked at me and something pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Is that a problem?"

"Depends." I looked away.

"On what?" He said.

"On whether you want an excuse to come downstairs at half past one in the morning pretending your ignition is broken." I said.

The kitchen was quiet for a second. "My ignition is broken." He said.

"I’m sure it is." I said.

I kept cooking and he kept watching and the kitchen smelled good as I thought about how Lyra used to make this exact pasta on Sunday evenings and how she had taught me and how she would make me stand beside her at the stove and narrate every step even though I had watched her make it a hundred times.

She said cooking was only useful if you could teach it. I had disagreed at fifteen. I had come to understand what she meant by twenty.

"My sister loves this." I muttered.

"The pasta?" He said.

"She makes it differently." I said. "Her version has more garlic. She says mine is too subtle."

"Is she right?" He questioned.

"Yes." I said. "But I’m not going to tell her that."

He almost smiled. "What else does she make?"

"Everything." I said. "She’s a better cook than me. Better at most things than me actually." I paused. "She’d hate me saying that."

"Why?" He said.

"Because she thinks I’m better than her at most things." I said. "We’ve been having the same argument about it since we were children."

"Who’s right?" He said.

I thought about it. "Neither of us." I said. "We’re just different."

He looked at me for a moment. "You miss her." He said.

"Always." I said.

The pasta was done. I plated it and turned around and he was already standing, having moved without me noticing, and he was close.

"Eat with me." He muttered. "Don’t go back up yet."

I looked at him.

"Please." He said.

I looked at the two plates.

"Okay." I agreed.

What could go wrong?