U Broke The Girl In Me But You Wont Break The Man

Andrew Cody is exhausted.

After his first missed dose of Ferotrex, he just feels groggy. That’s pretty normal for someone with chronic insomnia. He has an extra coffee and keeps going like usual. By the next evening, though, the medication is fully out of his system and he’s so tired it feels like his bones are melting. His movements are slow, almost comically so, and it sends you Googling with worry. After all, going cold turkey on medications isn’t always a good idea.

As Pope slogs through finishing off a late dinner (he’d spent all afternoon napping), you plop down on the couch next to him and read off a website on your phone: “‘After stopping long-term use of acute ferality suppressants, alphas will likely experience a period of radically increased exhaustion and hunger. This should last no more than two weeks as the body resets its own secondary sex processes. From there, alphas can expect to rapidly gain muscle mass and, in some cases, may grow in height. During this period, it’s crucial for patients to follow their body’s cues and get adequate rest, calories, and hydration, emphasizing protein consumption to support associated changes. Sexual function will begin or return once the body has fully recovered and rebuilt from the damage sustained by the suppressants. Other common experiences include acne, deepening voice, increased perspiration, and genital growth.’” You poke him on the arm and tease, “Sounds like you’re going through puberty again, kiddo.”

He snorts and tells you, “I think I’d be mortified hearing you say all that if I weren’t so fucking tired.”

You stand and tug him up behind you, moving toward the bedroom. “Then come sleep with me.”

He’s so bone-down exhausted he doesn’t even tease you for the turn of phrase. He just follows you into the bedroom and stands there like a zombie while you get ready for bed, putting on your pajamas and brushing your teeth and doing your skincare like usual.

Once you’re ready, it’s pretty obvious Pope’s not going to be able to do more than the absolute bare minimum in terms of a bedtime routine. So you just nod toward his jeans and order, “Pants off, Andrew. If you’re about to pass out for a whole night, you’re not going to be happy with yourself if you do it in jeans.”

“I haven’t slept for a full night in decades,” he scoffs. Slowly. But he still steps out of his jeans, leaving them on the floor, and tugs off his shirt to boot. “Don’t let me sleep too late, okay?”

Secretly thrilled to see him on the verge of resting for the first time, you get into bed, pull the covers back for him, and lie through your teeth, “Of course.”

“Good. We have shit to do,” he grunts, flopping down onto the bed next to you and getting suspiciously cozy fast. Eyes already closed, he mutters, “First thing in the morning, we start looking into the next guy, got it?”

“Got it.” Unable to resist, you gently touch his fluffy curls, brushing his hair back so it won’t be too rumpled by the pillow. You rub his cheek affectionately with your thumb and soothe, “Definitely no oversleeping for you.”

Pope sleeps for three days.

His only breaks are for using the bathroom, briefly throwing back calories, or drinking water at your demand. Then he crashes back into the bed and starts snoring almost instantly. It’s deep rest, too, with little tossing or turning or dreaming. He barely even grunts an acknowledgment at night when you sidle in next to him, comforted by his warm presence next to you. You sleep better than you have since the assault, listening to his steady breathing and, frankly, using his strengthening calm scent like a diffuser.

While he sleeps, you dig.

Like Pope said, you have shit to do, but he doesn’t have to help with this part while his body is busy rebuilding itself after years of neglect. The best lead you have is a tattoo. An old tattoo, really old, so old the black ink has turned that sort of feathery teal, on a heavyset white man’s hand. You stared right at it, braced against the alley wall in front of you, memorizing its every millimeter. It was the first detail you put down for him, drawing the tattoo out in as much detail as you could manage.

It’s a bird, delicate and small, halfway in flight with a beak wide open in a call. Maybe if you knew anything about birds, you’d be able to get somewhere on your own with the internet by your side, but you know your best bet is the one heavily tattooed man you’ve reluctantly called a kind of friend for a few decades.

You shoot him a picture of your drawing with a vague caption: you know about tattoos right? saw this on someone’s hand and got curious

It takes him a couple hours to reply, which you should’ve expected considering you basically texted him in the middle of his night at 9am. But when he does get back to you, it’s clear he has the information you need.

Craig 🙄: who tf are u hanging out with u saw THAT off limits: why?? Craig 🙄: ukrainians off limits: more info dumbass Craig 🙄: one sec gotta get rid of some megas off limits: you’re disgusting Craig 🙄: ur the one who wants my help off limits: at least make sure they’re dressed before you kick them out Craig 🙄: ur so boring Craig 🙄: k i’m back Craig 🙄: tattoo is a nightingale. symbol of a ukrainian mafia family here. fedoruks. real mean assholes.  Craig 🙄: dont fuck w whoever it is Craig 🙄: shit did u fuck him already?? off limits: thanks for the info Craig 🙄: cmon gimme a little gossip sunshine i wanna be mean to pope about it off limits: suck a knot craig

Andrew Cody is hungry.

Starving.

Absolutely fucking famished, actually.

A week and a half since he stopped the Ferotrex, you wake up early in the morning to the sound of him rummaging around in the kitchen. The last few days he’s stayed awake longer and gotten more and more energy, but he’s still slept more than he’s been awake. After days and days of him making pretty much no sounds besides breathing, the nearby clattering shakes you into consciousness. With bleary eyes, you walk into the kitchen, cross your arms over your chest, and immediately start laughing.

Pope’s there, illuminated by the light of the fridge, sitting on the floor, eating and eating and eating. There’s an open pint of Greek yogurt, a tub of cottage cheese, and a jar of peanut butter he’s going back and forth between with the same spoon. Then there’s a plate loaded with smoked salmon, leftover bacon, and deli meats he’s eating by the handful. The bare handful. He’s also got a can of black beans and a can of chickpeas going, a spoon sticking out the top of each.

You cover your nose from the myriad of smells and snicker, “This is a truly disgusting display, Andrew.”

“This is gourmet,” he corrects with an infectious grin that almost distracts from the disgustingness. “Protein. Need more protein. I’ve never been so hungry in my life. I could eat a whole butcher’s shop.”

You flick on the kitchen light and suggest with a laugh, “How about you put away this disaster and I cook up all the eggs we have? We’ve got bagels, too, which were going to be beautifully accompanied by that salmon you’ve ravaged, but we could do some meat and cheese and have breakfast sandwiches. And a smoothie with some-” you glance around the kitchen with protein on the mind “-spinach, bananas, avocado? And berries or something that’ll make it taste less like those things?”

Pope collects his pathetic spread of food and sets everything on the counter, putting things away quickly. Then, with a wolfish smile hanging on his lips, he wraps you in a huge, aggressive hug, lifting you slightly off your toes and spinning you around in the kitchen. “You’re an angel.”

“And you’re…tall,” you gasp a bit as he sets you back down on your feet. Holding your hands on his shoulders, you realize you’re looking up at him with a chin tilted back more than usual. A little breathless, you mutter, “Jesus, you must’ve shot up two inches this week.”

“You think so?” He rolls his shoulders like he’s inspecting being in his body. It must feel strange because he does a couple sort of jogging-in-place steps. “Yeah, y’know what? My legs are fucking aching like when I was 14. Damn.” Then he puts on a cocky, teasing smile and you feel your heart stutter unexpectedly as he flexes his biceps and laughs, “Am I getting all buff like the internet said, too?”

You swallow hard and avert your eyes, cringing at the fact that your scent flares significantly at the sight of his definitely larger bulging muscles. Your cheeks heat up right away when you realize his thighs are straining against his boxer briefs. Definitely buff. Andrew’s always been strong and muscular, but this is the first time he’s looked so damn broad, like he could toss you into a fireman’s carry without a second thought. Fuck. You’re suddenly feeling awfully hungry yourself.

Pope notices your bashful, very omega reaction, but he’s quick to write it off as simple biological instinct. Nothing to do with him in particular. So he brushes it off to avoid embarrassing you and says, “You’re gonna have to take me shopping, pup.”

“You said that like it’s a joke, but I heard it like a challenge,” you giggle, thankful that he’s taking mercy on you. Most alphas – especially feeling so good for the first time – would’ve taken the opportunity to preen more in the presence of a clearly blushing and flustered omega. You step back out of his vibrant citrus scent and force a smile that you hope looks normal and not lust-ridden. “Go take a shower and get dressed; I’ll make us a real breakfast. We’ve got stuff to talk about today.”

Pope gives you a cheeky salute and obeys. “Yes, ma’am.”

Andrew Cody feels fucking fantastic.

When he steps out of the shower twelve days off the meds, he wipes the steam from the mirror and cocks his head curiously to the side. He’s definitely taller, like you’d said, and his shoulders seem wider. His whole stance – strong, confident, broad – screams ‘alpha’ instead of whispering. But it’s not just that. His hair is shinier and fuller and curlier, his skin has more bounce and life in it (despite the handful of pimples, but among his freckles they’re hardly noticeable), and his features stand out as sharper and more defined. He looks…good. Healthy. Alive. And Pope isn’t someone who’s ever had many positive thoughts about himself, especially his appearance.

The real change is deeper, though. Beyond the surface, he’s got energy. It’s buzzing beneath his skin. His mind is sharp and clear, noticing every small detail around him. For quite literally the first time he can remember, his anxiety is quiet. He’s not questioning every thought that passes through his head, punishing himself for thinking and feeling and being. Instead, his brain is operating on course and he’s a reliable pilot.

He feels like an alpha.

Like he’s larger than, taller than, better than. Like he can hold the world in his palm and crush or cradle it depending on his whim. It almost frightens him how powerful he feels, but he trusts himself, too. He still has the self control he’s developed for years, the total ownership over his being that’s always set him apart.

When he struts into the kitchen, where you’re at the stove cooking away, he looks confused more than anything. His eyes trace around the familiar space. Is his vision sharper? It seems like the buzz of the fridge is louder, too, and he can track your every tiny movement with his ears without looking your direction.

And your smell.

Fuck.

You smell so much stronger. He’s never noticed that the rich cinnamon pouring from your neck has an earthiness to it, like tea, when you’re content and comfortable. When you look over and smile at him, there’s an ever so faint note of sweetness. Vanilla, maybe. Something creamy and smooth and desserty. Because you looked at him.

In the next half a second, Pope’s nose is an inch from your neck's scent gland, the space between you crossed so fast you barely noticed. When you startle from the suddenness, he pulls back and blinks a few times. “Your scent.”

“My scent?” You scoff; he’s the one who smells twice as good as usual. Trying to concentrate as that orangey lemony goodness coats your tongue like a popsicle on the hottest day of the year, you let out a deep breath and ask, “What about it?”

“It’s- it’s hard to explain.” He struggles for words and sniffs you again from further away, just focusing in on the aroma of you. “I’ve been smelling you for twenty years and it feels like I’m just now meeting you.” He steps closer, close enough to make your knees weaken, and touches your hand, bringing your wrist up to his nose. You feel the telltale heat and wetness of slick slipping into your sleep shorts from the intense proximity. Clearly unaware of the effect he’s having, he breathes deeply, shakes his head, and tries to clarify, “It’s really nice, I guess, is all. You smell sharper. Feels like- like I know you better now.”

“That’s- that’s nice.” You let out a sharp breath through your nose and try to focus. “What else is different? Everything?”

“I just feel…powerful. Strong. Capable.” Then he gives you an amused smile, puts his hands on your waist, and asks, “Can I pick you up?”

You bark out a laugh, “Um, sure, if that suits your fancy.”

He chuckles, “Just wanna see if I’m actually stronger of if these new arms are only for show.”

Andrew’s fingers dig possessively into your waist and he lifts you straight up without much effort, laughing under his breath as he does. You squeak as he sets you down, his expression all pinched and baffled and delighted. He scoffs, “This is fucking crazy, pup. It feels like you weigh about a hundred pounds less. Jesus.” He lifts you again just for the hell of it and laughs, setting you down only when you shriek out a giggle of your own. He shakes his head in disbelief, arms behind the back of his head as he stretches and grins. “Wow. You have no idea how good I feel right now.”

God, his scent is flooding from him and it’s worming its way through your every cell. “Andrew, you need to-” You swallow hard and touch his chest, pushing him back slightly. Of course, he lets you, his focus recentering at the first sign of your discomfort. “You smell a lot stronger, too, beefcake, so you need to be a little more careful around omegas right now.”

He takes another step away from you, clearly concerned that he’s done something wrong. “Why? Is it bad? Scary? I’m sorry; I didn’t know I-”

“It’s okay. It’s not bad,” you interrupt carefully. “Don’t worry. You can smell me more; I can smell you more. We just have to get used to it for a little and it’ll become background noise like before. Like anyone else.”

Pope flexes his hands and rolls his shoulders again. “Right. That makes sense.”

You turn your attention back to the eggs you’ve now certainly overcooked and fan your face with one hand, cutting the heat. The tightness in your gut won’t go away, though, no matter what. After you add sliced cheese to the eggs and move them to an off burner for it to melt, you step past Andrew and slide open the patio door, drinking in the fresh air to cool down your burning cheeks.

Christ, you feel halfway into heat with this new uninhibited flood of pure alpha invading your nostrils. You’ve never needed to use any scent-masking sprays or lotions around Pope before, but his body is suddenly dumping out a decade’s worth of pheromones and it’s fucking with you bad. You’re dizzy and drunk and-

“Are you okay?” Andrew touches your lower back like he’s done a thousand times. You shiver as thoughts of turning around and dropping to your knees for him invade your mind. You’re not sure if you like the thoughts or if they frighten you. He asks tenderly, “What’s wrong? Did I do something to trigger you?”

“No, no, not that,” you assure right away.  You bite your lower lip, embarrassed beyond words as your feel your wet shorts clinging, and admit, “You’re just putting out a whole lot of alpha right now and, y’know, I’m an unbonded omega. So the whole, um, it’s the whole biology thing. It’s nothing that- it’s just that you’re-” You take and release a shaky breath and give a shy smile. The two of you have always been honest with each other and this awkwardness is no reason to stop. He's your person. “Look, Andrew, I need to go change my shorts because of your scent and your- your general thing right now. Alpha pheromones make omegas kinda nuts. Let’s try not to make every omega you pass today deal with the same thing.”

“Oh.” Pope straightens up, his eyes widening, as you duck your head and make a hasty escape to the bedroom. You've never seen his cheeks so red. He mumbles, mainly to himself, “I’ll, ah, I’ll toast the bagels, then, while you- Yeah. Yeah, okay.

Pope downs a tall glass of water in three gulps before he finishes plating up breakfast for both of you. He can’t help the tiny smirk that toys with his lips. He’s not just better-looking than before; he’s attractive. He’s able to wipe the self-satisfaction away in a few heartbeats, but it admittedly feels a little good after years and years of omegas never paying him much attention, even compared to his beta younger brothers.

When you return from the bedroom a few minutes later, you’re wearing denim shorts, a black halter, and a clear scent-blocking patch over your nostrils. You've got a stock of them for your shifts at the hospital, where all staff wear them all the time. You offer a nervous smile, take one plate, and stammer, “Sorry about that, it’s just-”

“No, pup, don’t be sorry. Please don’t be sorry,” he urges. His voice is full of just as much love as always. “I wasn’t even thinking that it might affect you to be around me right now. Hindsight.” He takes your free hand and holds it close to his chest for a second, making striking hazel eye contact. “I never want to make you uncomfortable; that hasn’t changed just because I’m feeling better. We’ll stop by a pharmacy later and I’ll get some of that scent-dampening lotion for a while.”

“Thanks, Andrew.” You squeeze his hand. “Thanks for everything you’re doing for me. You’re the best.”

“Me?” He shakes his head and insists, “I’m pretty sure you saved my life by getting me to stop those meds, sunshine. You know I love you, right? Always, but especially for that.”

A grin splits you wide open. Andrew’s arguably the most emotionally constipated person you’ve ever known, but there are sometimes moments like these when he reveals that glowing boy inside the stone facade. Your best friend. “I love you, too. C’mon, keep eating so you can grow big and strong.”

He rolls his eyes but digs into his food anyway, totally unfazed by the poor cooking caused by the two of you messing around by the stove. He’s already halfway through one sandwich with two large bites and eyeing up another when he asks, “Now, you said we had something to talk about. The next guy?”

“Yeah,” you tell him with a tentative smile. “The tattoo guy. I asked Craig about-”

“You asked Craig?”

You take a bite and shrug. “He knows about tattoos.”

“I guess.” Andrew squirms at the idea of you talking to one of his brothers while he was sleeping. He knows he shouldn’t – you’ve known all of them as long as him, of course – but he does. “What, ah, what did he say?”

You open the text thread with Craig and hand it over to Pope, who reads it while you explain, “He said that members of some Ukrainian crime family here in Oceanside have that tattoo. It’s a nightingale.”

“Right, yeah.” He polishes off the sandwich, chugs an entire glass of orange juice, and reaches for a second. “Fuck, I should’ve recognized it. We pulled a job with the Fedoruks a couple years back. Brain’s still fuzzy, I guess.”

“So how do we figure out which of these Fedoruk guys it was? I have a few more details, but I don’t think they’d help us without knowing them.”

“Our family’s fence used to be in with them. Close. Let’s go out and see her.”

Pope’s fence is a pretty middle-aged omega woman called Cameron with sharp eyes and a neck covered in old bite scars who keeps her office in an upscale brick loft. She intimidates you immediately. But her expression softens when she sees Andrew with an omega standing nervously behind him like he’s a shield. She beckons you both up a winding staircase at the side of the building, leading you into a dim room outfitted with velvet drapery, collections of golden and beaded curtains, and weapons. Ornate, antique guns and daggers seem to be her favorite decor. 

Cameron immediately has both of you sit on low-down cushions and pours you mugs of dark herbal tea with flower petals floating at the top. As she sips on her own, she examines Pope carefully and asks, “What can I help you with, Mr. Cody? I see you’re sans Janine today.”

“Side project,” Pope replies. He reaches for the interior pocket of his jacket and hands her a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills he’d removed from one of his safes before leaving the house. “We’re hoping you can help us ID someone. A Fedoruk.”

Bristling slightly at the name, Cameron takes the money in her dainty hands and methodically counts it. Satisfied with the hefty payout, she narrows her eyes and asks, “Why?”

Pope looks to you and gently touches your knee. “You can tell her, pup. She’ll understand.”

You meet her eyes with fierceness in yours. “He raped me. I want revenge.”

Cameron nods slowly. Respect laces her features. “What’s your name, omega?”

Pope shakes his head before you can respond. “I don’t want her identity floating around the rumor circuit.”

“If she’s yours, I’m sure it already is,” Cameron tuts. Then she refocuses on you. “What do you know about him?”

“Not much,” you admit with a sigh. “He had a mask on, just a black ski mask. He’s white, heavy, dark hair on his arms, going a little gray.”

She grimaces and replies, “That would be almost all of the family. Anything more specific?”

“He was near the start of his rut.” You give her the kind of pointed look only omegas can share, one that speaks to the specific way alphas behave around you. “Do you…do you know their scents?”

You swear you catch tears sting Cameron’s eyes for a second, but she’s quick to set her jaw. “Tell me.”

As Pope rubs your back with his steady hand for comfort, you swallow down the memory and whisper, “He smelled like basil, maybe, or bay leaves. Earthy and sharp. Herbal.”

Her eyes snap up to yours. There’s an aching familiarity in her gaze that makes you know. It’s like your bite scars call to each other. Cameron starts to scribble down information on a pad of paper as she tells you with venom on her tongue, “His name’s Oleksandr Fedoruk, but they call him Les. He lives in that ugly new building on Terrace and Second. 4B.” Her voice breaks only barely noticeably as she adds, “He comes home blackout drunk every Friday night. The family gets together and everyone gets paid. That would be the best time to catch him off guard.” She meets Pope’s eyes and smirks. “If that were the kind of thing someone wanted to do.”

You glance over at Pope and murmur, “Today’s Friday.”

He stands up and you follow his lead. He gives Cameron a familiar, one-armed hug. “Hell yeah it is.”

“Stay safe,” Cameron urges as the two of you get ready to leave. She catches your forearm in a desperate, intimate way before you can turn your back. “Don’t miss. Please.”

Your voice is so dark it strikes you as almost foreign as you assure her, “I won’t.”

You and Pope have everything rigged up in the unfamiliar apartment by the time Les Fedoruk stumbles home, still bearing a sloppy smile as he sings some old drunken family song under his breath. From your position in the bedroom closet, your heart climbs up into your throat when it settles in that this is happening. Pope’s so close you can smell him through the scent-masking patch over your nose, his warmth radiating through his clothes and into yours. He gives your free hand an affirming squeeze, avoiding the hand with the uncapped syringe.

Both of you listen to the large man bumble around, stepping out of his pants and stripping off his shirt and shoving into the bedroom. You can tell just from his footsteps that he’s the size of Pope’s truck out front. After taking a piss that lasts longer than you would’ve thought humanly possible in the adjacent bathroom (Pope looks almost impressed), Les flops himself onto the bed to crash. Of course, as Pope expected, Les doesn’t notice the black nylon ropes peeking out in four points around the mattress because he’s too wasted.

It only takes a few minutes for his breaths to turn to body-rattling snores. Light on his feet, Pope carefully opens the closet door to scope it out ahead of you. Finding Les face down, head tilted toward the window, he gestures for you to come forward. There’s no hesitation in your step as you take a few lithe strides across the room, jab the syringe into his thigh, and push the plunger.

Pope rolls his neck, cracks his knuckles, and says, “Think I’m gonna need your help moving this one around.”

“Not that I’ll be much help.”

He shakes his head. “You’re stronger than you think. C’mon.”

Still, it takes all your strength on top of Pope’s newly found muscles to maneuver the unconscious Les onto his back and center him on the bed. Pope works quickly, unsure how fast the sedative will wear off in someone his size, tying his wrists and ankles down taut against the bed frame.

For a few minutes, you and Andrew stand in silence, waiting for Les to stir. When he does, he immediately realizes something’s wrong, taking in the two of you with wide eyes and thrashing until he realizes he’s tied up securely. His blue eyes land squarely on Pope and he stammers out, not sounding scared but just surprised, “You’re- you’re one of Smurf’s boys, aren’t you? A Cody?

Pope shrugs and nods toward you. “I’m just the help.”

When his panicky eyes go to you, the cute omega smiling next to big bad Pope Cody, his glare becomes confused. You give a little wave and ask, “Recognize me?”

He groans as he realizes the totality of his situation, blinking against the harsh fluorescent light. His eyes trail over your face and he woozily tries, “No, I- I- Who the fuck…?”

“What? You rape so many omegas you don’t even remember anymore?” You lunge forward, knees on the bed, and stab the knife through his right hand just to the left of the tattoo before he can even process the question. He lets out a harsh, angry grunt as the sedative wears the rest of the way off from the pain. You draw the blade agonizingly deep across the tattoo and explain, “Luckily someone recognized this for me so I could introduce myself properly.” Les strains against the ropes around his wrist as you smile down at him. You take the knife and press it to his fleshy neck. “Hi, there. I’m God.”

“Is this about- Christ, fuck!” He shouts as you casually pull the blade over his flesh wherever you feel like it. You’ve never felt true sadism before, but it doesn’t scare you. It feels right in this moment. “Jesus, I- I’ll roll on the others! Paycheck definitely wasn’t worth this shit.”

“Oooh, bargaining,” you coo. “I think I like that.” You stand up as if you’re suddenly feeling merciful and ask, “Who put you up to it?”

When you set the knife on the table to make a true show of peace, he nods quickly and tells you, “I got all my orders from this guy – calls himself Master. Real piece of work, but he pays good. Runs with the Trujillos.” Pope takes the Moleskine from his back pocket and jots that on a page. “Now, ah, let’s- let’s all just calm down and-”

Before he finishes the sentence, one of his hands flies across his body toward you – and toward the knife on the side table. He managed to untie his wrist while you were distracted. You curse under your breath but don’t miss a beat, shoving the knife from the table so he can’t reach it and then picking it up again.

You get to the knife before he can figure out how to get his other hand free and you’re definitely not going to use it to untie him. As you leap onto the bed to tackle his arm back down, he wails out, “Stupid fucking skank! You don’t know who-”

Pope begins to shove forward, but you give him a dark look that screams back off clearly enough for him to get the message. You’re going to handle this yourself. He steps back and watches with awe as your knife collides with Les’ shoulder over and over again, this time with enough force to make him grunt out something guttural and squelching. You keep going, violent and focused, until his arm is borderline severed on the free side and, at a certain point, he can’t gather the strength to lift it.

And you keep stabbing his chest. With full, arching swings of your body, you force the knife to meet flesh over and over. As you do, blood sprays across your face and body, some speckling Pope, too. While he watches the beauty of your righteous vengeance, Pope feels something happening below the belt. Something old and something new. All of a sudden he’s shuddering slightly, catching himself from swaying by gripping his hand into the nearby TV stand. The orgasm shivers out of him while you show your strength, your resilience, your brutality. 

You’re glorious. 

You’re glorious and Pope Cody cums in his pants because of it. But it’s not just that. His cock keeps stiffening. It swells. Into a knot at the end, thick and straining. The pleasure makes him feel drunk. You must be able to smell the powerful flood from his scent glands because you throw a not-quite-knowing grin over your shoulder, just thinking he’s smiling and scenting because he’s proud of you for being such a badass right now.

But he’s smiling for another reason. He knows he probably should be embarrassed over the juvenile and kind of fucked up nature of the moment, sure, but the reality is that this knot means something. In fact, it means he can have everything.

He could have you.

“There we go. That’s better.” Snatching Pope from his train of thought, you wipe your wrist across your bloody and sweaty forehead and pant heavily as you work to catch your breath. Staring down at the symphony of gore by your feet, you tell Pope, “Sorry for the mess.”

“Don’t be,” he mutters. He prays to a nonexistent god that you assume the pink in his cheeks is from adrenaline and not from the cum currently spilling down his inner thigh. He rolls his shoulders and sighs, “Let’s get ourselves cleaned up a bit and I’ll drive you home before I handle the rest.” As you give a tired nod and walk toward the bathroom, he admires the way your curves are highlighted by blood tracing them. He gives your shoulder an affectionate squeeze and says, “You look really cool right now, by the way. You’re amazing.”

You grin and turn to check yourself out in the mirror. “Kiss ass.”

He snickers and strips off his own bloody shirt. “Only if it’s yours.”

Cuddling up with Frank felt like none of the bad in your head could get to you. He felt safe, like his strong arms alone could keep out the thoughts that bubbled inside. Frank was aware of your mental health issues and did all he could to alleviate. Still, despite his efforts, you were struggling.

You didn't want to tell him that, worried that he would take it as a personal failure, that he would internalize it and it would hurt him- you knew he was protective of you. So, you just didn't say anything.

Even when it came down to cutting your thighs open.

It was bad, and it was all over. You had been afraid for a while last night that they weren't going to stop bleeding, and today you felt light headed from blood loss but kept soldier on. Frank even asked if you were okay when he saw you gripping the counter to keep upright, but you told him you were just lightheaded.

When Frank tried to initiate sex, it killed you to have to turn him down. You'd wanted him, real bad for a while now, but the last 3 weeks you'd been hurting yourself and couldn't let him know. At what point, you wondered, would Frank be suspicious? At what point would he get fed up with not having his needs met?

Once again, you turned him down, kissing him back just to feel the love on his lips, but saying, "I'm not feeling it tonight, Frankie. I'm sorry."

He smiles, because of course he does. Frank never makes you feel bad for not wanting to have sex. Leaning in, he touches your thigh to kiss your forehead- it's not a move to try and convince you, not a touch to try and warm you up. frank doesn't play those games, no means no.

"Don't be sorry, baby. Are you feeling-" But then he frowns, glancing down at your thigh in the black leggings. "You're burning up. Do you feel okay?" But when his hand reaches for your face, he doesn't feel a temp.

Worried, Frank sits up and goes to touch your leg again, "what-" but you jerk away and scramble off the couch. You can feel the fabric that stuck to the dried blood pull away from your skin, and you wince at the reopening.

"I'm fine."

You say it way to fast.

"Do you have an infection or something? Is it a bug bite? If Jax got fleas again-" Frank reaches out, feeling the leggings as he goes into doctor mode.

Panic sets in. "Don't fucking touch me!" But it's too late, his hand grazes over you, and when he pulls away he's looking at his hand. he felt the wetness of the re-opened cut, and there's blood on his fingers.

"Oh, baby..."

You begin crying, and Frank gently, carefully, pulls you into a hug.

*

Long fingers tenderly, carefully patch you up as you sit on a chair in the kitchen. He's quiet as he works, knowing you don't need a lecture. He mutters something about stitches, 'just to be safe', but when you said no he dropped the issue. Once you are cleaned and bandaged, Frank sits back on the kitchen floor, hands planted on the linoleum as he looks up at you.

"We gotta get you help."

But you shake your head.

"I'm fine. We can't afford it."

And you immediately regret it because you can see it shatter him, his face falling as he feels like he's failed you. He can save lives all day at the hospital, but he can't take care of you.

"We'll make it work, okay? Baby, I'm fucking worried, you think I havn't noticed your eating?" You knew he suspected something, the way he always made you food he knew you'd eat. "You think I haven't noticed you've been off? But you're pushing me away... I can't help if you don't let me in?"

'Are you feeling okay?'

'Is something wrong?'

'Did I do something to upset you?'

All words that frequently tumbled out of his mouth, attempts to get you to let him in, attempts you pushed away. Frank has been here the whole time.

His eyes skim over your body in your underwear, looking at the fresh cuts and the old ones coloring your skin in a map of colors, tracing the healing and patterns and pain on your life in scars.

"We're going to figure it out, okay? We'll rework the budget, get you a therapist, get you a psychiatrist, get you... whatever the fuck we need too."

"Frank-"

"No." He sits up, resting his head on your thigh, away from the bandages. "I'm not taking any risks with you. Not with you, not ever. When i hurt my back, i kept putting it off, putting it off, putting it off until next thing I knew I was in fucking rehab. We're not doing that with you, I'm not waiting and waiting until you're in the psych unit or-" But he can't finish the sentence, blue eyes glossing over as he gazes up at you.

"I'm not loosing you. We'll figure it out, but I'm not losing you."

You watch him for a moment, floppy hair falling on his face and obscuring the tears he's not embarrassed to show. He loves you, even if you don't love yourself. He loves you, even when you're suffering. You don't have to be healed for him to love you, you don't have to be easy.

He loves you anyway.

"Yeah... Yeah okay. We'll figure it out."

Relief flood Frank, burying his face in the warmth of your body, wetting you skin. He gets up off the floor, pulling you up into a hug. "We're gonna get you help. You're not alone anymore."

***

Jack is tossing scent beads into one himself. “Maybe next time we shouldn’t wait until we are out of clean clothes to make a trip.”

“Maybe next time, the in-unit washer and dryer, that we pay for, gets fixed!” You huff. Slamming the washer door shut. “Cops wanna spend all this time on low-level crimes, don’t wanna pay attention to landlords who fuck shit up in their shitty fucking apartments and-”

“Baby…” Jack put his hands on your shoulders. Steading you. He gives a look, and you do what you know the look is telling you. Breathe. “It’s gonna be okay. We will harass them until they get it fixed. I promise.”

Feeling better, you pull your book out of your bag and Jack gets his Nintendo Switch, and the two of you sit on the chairs to pass the time while your laundry is washed. Roaring, rumbling, the units tumbled your clothes and tossed them around with suds building around the edges. As you watch, your new Fae smut book long forgotten on your lap, the memory brings you back somewhere distant, somewhere so far away you had forgotten about it. Not about him, not about what he did. No, that showed up a lot in little ways in your life even all these years later. This was a side memory, memories of after, how you weren’t even given the dignity of leaving to go cry in your dorm after, how you were stuck with him pretending it was a date for hours after.

“Are your fairies fucking yet?” Jack asks, nudging you leg. It was a gentle touch, but made you gasp and jolt. It had been a long time since touch like that had scared you, but the memories in your head took you back to the place of such vulnerability, you felt like it was fresh.

“Huh?”

Creases form on his forehead, those lines between his eyebrows you liked to kiss now a sign he noticed something is wrong. “You alright, baby?” He asks with genuine concern. You never told Jack what happened to you- didn’t see the need. It wasn’t like you cried during sex or had nightmares anymore. Those days were long gone. By the time Jack came along, you’d gone through the motions of healing from… whatever you would call it.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just an emotional part in the book is all.”

He didn’t believe you. He tried to ask what happened, familiar enough with characters from your ramblings, but you dodged the questions going back to your book.

*

Jack knew something was wrong. You weren’t yourself all day- he watched you. It started at the Laundromat. The way you kept staring off into the washers like you remembered you left your phone in the pocket and had accepted your fate. At home it wasn't much better. You were quiet, not talking to him like usual as he cooked dinner. 

When you initiated sex, he checked in, making sure you were feeling okay. When you reassured him, he thought maybe you wanted to feel the closeness, the intimacy. Maybe having him would rest wherever was on your mind. He made sure it was romantic as fuck.

Now, you lay on his chest with the warm comforter pulled up and over you, tucked in under your chin. 

“You’ve never told me about your first time.”

Jack burst out in laughter. “Ha! No, no I have not. Why would I want to tell my wife about the most awkward 2 minutes of my life.” his little joke was met with silence, and he knew he fucked up. “Shit.” He rubbed your shoulder. “That was a serious question. Sorry baby. Is that something you’d like to know? I can tell you. It’s not a secret or anything, just typical teenage fumbling around. I can tell you though, if that's bothering you?.”

You shake your head against his chest. “Not really, I was just thinking about my first time.”

Ah, there it is. Jack wasn’t stupid. He knew for women, the pressure is a lot more. Your first time is built up to need to be something special- sometimes waiting until marriage, sometimes just meant to be romantic. Most young men did not live up to that. 

“You wanna talk about that?”

“Is that weird? You probably don’t wanna hear about me having sex with another man.” You laugh a little, but he feels the tension in your body. 

“If you want to talk about it, I want to hear.”

“It’s stupid…”

“It’s not. And even if you just wanna tell me so it’s on the table, that’s okay. We don’t have to discuss it, but we can. Whatever you want.” Jack tries to sound nonchalant, but he’s anxious. He wants to know what’s wrong, and wants to fix it like he wants to fix everything that makes you so much as a frown. He presses a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. “Talk to me…”

The bed rustles, shitty sheets rubbing against your naked body. When you’re nervous, you fidget. “It was just awkward… and weird… and… I dunno it’s kinda traumatic but not really. It wasn’t rape or nothing just… yeah.”

 Jack traces patterns on your back, rubbing down the spots he knows hurt you. “You can tell me. Won’t make fun of yuh. Promise.”

“Well it was just… weird… he didn’t seem to know what he was doing. Couldn’t take off my bra, show me his divorce certificate for some reason? I dunno.” Jack almost laughed, almost asked ‘what the fuck?’ but it wasn’t the time. “Yeah. And he was older than me and I was just really confused. I though an older guy know what to do, make it romantic, make it feel good, but instead he had Everybody Loves Raymond on the background…”

“How old was he?”

“25”

“And… how old were you?” He was scared to find out, paying it wasn’t something insane.

“I turned 18 a month prior. I met him the first day of college.”

“Jesus baby…” His breath fanned over your face as he sighed. That was too young for Jack to think it’s right for a 25 year old to have his eye on you. He imagined you, wide eyes and excited to start a new life in college only for whatever to happen to happen so fast. You were innocent, he knew you’d been sheltered. Ripe for someone to take advantage of your naivete. 

“I know- I guess, I mean I knew what he wanted and I was seeking him out for that reason. I wasn’t being stupid, it was just sex but I thought it could be… better. I guess.”

His thumb rubbed at the spot, the place between two ribs that you always get knots. Your naked body clung to Jack’s, resting against him and clinging to him for comfort like he was your giant teddy keeping you safe from the storm. “And what happened? Did he hurt you?”

Your head tucks into his pecks. “He- well it hurt. But it always hurts the first time.”

He wanted to tell you it didn’t hurt every time. He wanted to tell you the one time he was with a virgin he took his time and she said it didn’t hurt. But Jack, as a professional, knew that for some people it hurt even if you were careful and took your time opening them up. This was not the time to split hairs. Instead, he just kissed the top of your head. 

What you said next made his breath catch. “I tried to uh… back out, I guess. His hand went for my pants and I grabbed his hand and stopped him. I said I was on my period. I said I wasn’t ready. He said ‘we’re not doing anything’ and next thing I know he’s got me on top of him trying to pull me down on him and its-” 

Just as you started shaking his hands are pressing you to him, Jack cradling you in his warmth. Jack Abbot was a furnace, something that sucked in the summer but a comfort in moments like this when your blood felt cold. The smell of his sweat grounds you. 

A deep breath. “It hurt… I don’t know why he wanted to do it like that instead of like. Missionary. But it hurt and it wouldn’t f-fucking work.” You appreciate that Jack didn’t interrupt you, let you just say what you wanted to. “Eventually we switched and he just. I guess he did his thing and I just laid there. I remember thinking I wanted to tell him to stop, I wanted to scream… but I was scared. I was scared to make a deal my first week of college i was scared he would hurt me… So I just watched the TV… Then it was over. And we had plans after.” The strange memories flooded in, the time after.

Jack sat up, pulling you and the blanket with him, keeping you covered in dignity as you poured yourself to him. Cradled in comfort, you were held.  “You had to spend time with him after that?”

 “He stripped his bed because I bled on his sheet and we went to the laundry room and put them in. I was just in shock, looking at my blood in the washer as it got started. I was with him for another 2 hours. He bought me a smoothie. I remember thinking I sold my virginity for a red velvet smoothie. It was good though…”

The silence settled over you like a blanket, cooling the sweat of sex on your bodies and enhancing the chill you felt at the memory. 

After a few moments, Jack spoke in a soft voice. “Baby, I am so, so sorry that happened to you… That should have never happened, you should’ve been safe, especially so young.”

You sniffle. “I don’t even know what ‘that’ was. It was just uncomfortable and scary and weird and awkward and he was so fucking awkward and… not at all how I was raised to think it would be.”

“Sweetheart… that was rape. That’s what it’s called. You tried to stop him, twice, and he didn’t.”

At that, you sit up, frowning and clutching the blanket to your chest. “No, no it wasn’t like that. When we did missionary, he asked if I was sure. I said yes. It wasn’t rape it was just like… I dunno. But I said yes. That wasn’t it. No. Not it.”

What you were going through, he’s seen 100 times before. The night shift tends to get more of the domestic violence and rape cases. Jack’s spoken to many, many men and women who don’t want to say the big R word, think it wasn’t that bad, that they think avoiding the label avoids the trauma.

He sits up with you, grabbing his t shirt that was discarded over the headboard. “Here. Sweetheart, listen to me, you said it was when it was missionary when you said yes, right? That was after he tried it the other way. That was after you tried to say no twice.”

“Jack… no…”

“You were shaking talking about it. You were dissociating at the laundromat. I’m not a psych but that sounds like PTSD to me.”

Again, you shake your head, arms clutched around Jack’s shirt hanging loose over your shoulders. “Jack… I said yes, I- I went there to lose my virginity, I knew…” Tears brimmed at your red rimmed eyes, breaking Jack’s heart. He wanted to reach inside and fix everything that coward hurt. He wanted you to understand what happened.

But he couldn’t push you. It wasn’t his place to label it.

Jack nods. “I won’t tell you what to call it. I won’t force you to put a name to it. But I just want you to think. If I went to a woman’s house to have sex, changed my mind and tried to tell her no twice and she kept doing things to me, what would you call it.”

You didn’t like that one bit. In a huff, you get up from the bed. “Forget I said anything.” And storm off towards the ensuite bathroom.

A pit falls in Jack’s stomach and starts to get up. “Baby, I’m sorry-”

“Leave me alone!”

The snap and shout shocked him. Jack and you didn’t usually fight and you certainly weren’t yellers but in that moment your face flashed such anger, fists clenched at your side he leaned back against the pillow. He could see the regret, but in a moment you went cold and fled to the bathroom.

Shower steam came out from below the door, light illuminating it into the dark room. Jack sat there, giving you the space you needed and wanted. You stayed in there until the water went cold and the steam stopped following out the draft between the floor and door.

*

Your skin burned but you didn’t move. 

His words created a scene in your mind, a coldness inside you the hot water couldn’t melt. If someone did what happened to you, you might kill her. You would never, ever want Jack to feel the way you felt, for his body to be violated the way yours were, his words and wants being ignored and desire turned into fear. Especially if he was a young boy who’d never even been kissed before. The thought mixed your own memories left you dry heaving in the tub.

When you finally got out, you stared at yourself in a fogged up mirror. Red rimmed puffy eyes and the exhaustion weighting heavy. Finally, you realize the word on your tongue naming what had happened.

Jack sits on his bed in his PJ’s, blue light blocking glasses slowly sliding down his nose as he plays his switch like he tends to before bed. You had told him he needed a hobby that didn’t involve blood, either from him or on him. Sure, you thought it might be wood working or crossword puzzles or even making his way through your fae smut books, but his little Tomodachi Life habit was cute and made him happy.

On the bed was a matching PJ set, fuzzy socks, and a glass of water on the bedside table. Jack looks up at you over his glasses, a face that tries to convey normalcy but betrays deep worry.

“How was the shower?” he asks, like that was a normal thing to ask someone.

You drop the towel and get dressed. “Fine, thanks. Are you ready for bed?”

“Yeah, yeah lets go to sleep.” Shutting off his game and the light, Jack opens his arms to you hopefully and you give him a tired smile, crawling up into him as the pair of you settle in for the night. You didn’t want to talk about it, and it seemed like Jack was going to drop it.

But then you thought of young Jack, of young you, a girl who deserved better.

*

Jack held you, because that was what you needed, because that was what he wanted. 10 minutes went by in silence and you were breathing so steady he’d thought you’d fallen asleep. He was so lost in his thoughts, his anger at what had happened to you keeping him awake. How could someone do that to someone so young? It was insidious, the way he did it; the coercion, the ‘we’re not doing anything’, the way he made you too confused to understand what was happening. So much so you couldn’t even name it.

When you finally spoke his name, breath fanning out in his chest again, it startled him just a little and he had to breath out his anger before responding. “Yeah, baby?”

There’s a pause again and Jack can feel you breath picking up, your heart rate being against his, your anxiety to his rage, and you cling to him like your buoy in the storm.

“I think I was raped…” Your voice begins to warble, and soon you dissolve into tears. Finally, as these years later, you name it and the weight falls heavy and all there’s left to do is cry. And Jack, ever steady, he is the rock your waves can crash against. He holds you tighter, allowing you to cry.

When it was all said and done, when the tears were shed and the memories imparted onto Jack to help carry, you finally felt lighter.

And Jack would always be there to help carry you and the pain when it got heavy again.

***

THANKS FOR READING!!!! if you wanna see that part 2 idea!

“Let’s start with the two who didn’t wear masks,” Pope suggests as he sits next to you on the couch with his laptop open on his meaty thighs. “That’ll be a hell of a lot easier if they were caught on camera anywhere in the area. If these aren’t career guys, they might not’ve thought about things like that. We’ll get good info either way.”

You nod tentatively and open up Pope’s notebook, where you’ve been keeping any scribbled details you can remember, no matter how insignificant they seem. With a heavy sigh, you open up a center page and glance over it. “Blondie’s up first, then.”

You hand over the page and he scans the notes. Blond. Average height. Thin. His eyes move rapidly as they try to pick out anything that might be worth going on. When he finds something, his eyebrows go up and he looks at you intently. “You wrote ‘menthol cigarettes.’ Was he smoking and you smelled it? Did you see the package?"

You nod slowly and avert eye contact so you can focus back on the memory, dark and clear. “When I was still on the ground, he took out a pack of cigarettes to smoke one. My eyes were shut while I pretended to be passed out, but I kept track of their movements until they left. It was a brand new pack – he had to unwrap it. I remember the crinkling plasticky sound. Then I could smell the smoke, too, for a few minutes, because the air was so stale in the alley. Definitely menthols.”

It’s a perfect detail, the kind you need; Pope gives your bruised hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s good, pup. Only a couple shops around here will still risk the fine to sell menthols under the table. If they were new, he probably bought them at one of those places pretty soon before.” He shakes his head and scoffs, “First time I’ve been a fan of that legislation.”

With hope that makes Pope rumble slightly in your voice, you ask, “You know some places already?”

“A couple,” he confirms, shutting his laptop. “Let me call Craig; he’ll be able to give me more. Get yourself ready to go. Try to look…sympathetic, I guess.”

You dress yourself in a pair of light jeans and a blank white tee because you don’t know what ‘sympathetic’ looks like and neither does Pope. You skip the makeup; maybe seeming as tired as you are will help the cause.

While you collect your things, Pope emerges from his room in his navy blue cop uniform. It’s not a costume because you know he stole it from a real precinct years ago. Since then, his muscles have filled out, the fabric taut around his biceps and thighs. He looks fiercely protective and strong. Stopping you from ogling too long (at the end of the day, your instinctual omega brain demands you appreciate a well-chiseled alpha), he taps the name plate and tells you in a low voice, “Officer Charleston while we’re out today, alright? The acting is 90% of the work to get us in the back of these places without a warrant or, y’know, other methods. I’d prefer not to take out a gun if I don’t have to.”

You snicker, “Sure thing, Officer Cute Butt.”

Pope huffs and tries not to let his face heat up. Leading you out of the house and into his preferred undercover vehicle, he mutters, “Charleston.”

Andrew takes you back toward the part of Oceanside where you were attacked, near your work. Your skin crawls even being near the alley intersection, heart speeding up and palms sweating. He must be able to tell because he rests one hand, firm and comforting, on your thigh. The simple touch grounds you in reality.

The two of you start with the closest shops to the intersection and work your way out. The first two are dead ends; one has no security cameras and the other reluctantly scrubs through the night’s tape with no positive identifications.

Pope walks you into the third gas station the same way he did the first two, keeping you just in front of him and holding one hand on his belt with that dumb bow-legged walk cops do to assert dominance. He walks up to the register, gets the attention of the older man behind the glass, and asks, “Are you the owner?”

The guy visibly stiffens at the sight of Pope’s uniform, which you know is a good sign. With darting eyes, he asks, “Something I can help you with?”

“Mind coming out here and joining me for a discussion?” The owner nods shakily and scrambles out from behind the counter. Andrew keeps his posture strong and commanding as he says, “Morning, sir, Officer Charleston from the Oceanside Police. Investigations Department. What’s your name?”

“Stanton. Ah, Arvin Stanton.”

“Good to meet you Mr. Stanton.” He extends his hand and the owner nervously shakes it. Keeping it vague to rattle the man’s nerves, Pope goes on, “I believe you might be able to assist me with one of my ongoing cases.”

You can see him flipping through the rolodex of petty crimes he commits on a daily basis behind his brown eyes. He swallows hard, shoves his hands in his pocket, and asks, “What- what kind of case?”

“There was a multiple-alpha rape against an unarmed omega a couple blocks from here recently and we have reason to believe one of the perpetrators may have been patronizing your establishment in the hours prior to the assault. I’d like to go through the security tapes with the victim to attempt a positive identification.”

The store owner glances down at his shoes. “Do you, ah, do you have a warrant for those tapes?”

“If I have to get a warrant, then I’d be obligated to investigate any potential illegal activity or suspicious persons on the tapes.” Pope leans forward, narrows his eyes, and lowers his voice. “I’m not particularly interested in wasting my time chasing down a bunch of fines for low-level non-drug trafficking charges when there are a bunch of dangerous alphas on the loose.”

The owner looks between the two of you, measuring carefully and weighing his options. He slowly asks, “So if you did see something like that on the tapes…?”

“My priority here is finding the assailant,” Andrew assures, “and any assistance on your end may help the OPD, ah, look the other way on what he may or may not have been purchasing from you that night. Selling menthols under the table isn’t exactly running a cartel, you know what I mean?”

Mr. Stanton gives a relieved, scoffing sort of laugh. He nods once, quick and sharp, and then spares a look at you over Pope’s shoulder. “She’s the victim?”

As you avert your eyes from the bile-inducing shame you wish didn’t rise, Pope confirms softly, “That’s right. See all those bites on her arms? She’s unbonded; they’re all from the attack. She was just on her way home from work. And you might be able to help us catch one of the guys who hurt her. We can stop him from doing it again to omegas in this neighborhood. That means something.”

Mr. Stanton finally straightens up. “Come on; all the security equipment’s in the back. I’ll show you.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Stanton.”

Once his back is turned and all of you are headed through the convenience store, Pope gives your hand a quick, affirming squeeze that helps loosen the knot in your stomach a tiny bit. In the back office, Stanton sits behind a desk with an old computer monitor displaying four surprisingly crisp feeds of the store. He mutters, “Just had the system updated this year; glad it’ll get some use. What night should I be looking at?”

“July sixteenth,” Pope replies curtly. You’re frozen next to him, hands balled into fists as you try not to cry. “Start in the early afternoon and go from there. We’re looking for a blond man. Long hair. Average height. Thin.”

Stanton turns around and gives Andrew a wide-eyed look.

Recognition.

“I think- I think I might know who you’re looking for.” He goes back to the computer and scrubs quickly through the minutes until he reaches a bit after five pm. Two hours before your shift ended. Then he keys through slower, hunting for the exact minute. “I remember thinking he was…I don’t know. Flighty? Just kind of nervous in general. Shaky hands. Kept checking his phone. I figured it was just that he knew he was breaking the law buying the smokes.”

A man matching the description walks into frame and takes a few stilted steps toward Stanton, his posture incredibly uncomfortable, checking around like he’s expecting someone to grab him at any moment. He wears a brown Carhartt jacket despite the weather and a baseball cap that conceals his face – until he turns toward the security camera right above the register.

Your breathing stills and your body goes rigid. Sudden, heavy, thick omega distress ripples off of you and fills the small space. Your lungs tighten up. Stanton excuses himself gruffly from the small room and closes the door behind himself to get away from you; the smell is too intense even for a beta to tolerate. People throughout the store are probably wondering what’s going on.

Andrew switches to breathing through his mouth and digs his fingers into the desk hard enough to splinter the plasticky top. Even through the meds, the acuteness of your smell has him snarling under his breath. He pauses the footage and looks over his shoulder at you. Voice strangled, he points at the grainy picture on the screen and confirms what he already knows, “Him?”

Your voice is tiny, more like a mouse’s squeak, as you confirm, “That’s him. Number one.”

Pope takes screenshots, uploads them to his phone, and then shuts the system down so you don’t have to look anymore. He stands, tugs you into his chest, and slows his breathing to try to guide you back toward calm. You tuck beneath his chest and whimper, nosing up into his scent gland for instinctive comfort.

“You’re okay, pup.” He kisses the top of your head as he feels you start to shake. It's not exactly his specialty, but he tries to think comforting thoughts to even out his scent for your benefit. “You’re safe with me. I’ve got you.”

It takes a few minutes, but your body stabilizes. Your lungs fill and empty on the right schedule. Your goosebumps flatten back out. Andrew lets go of you slowly, releasing the pressure gradually so you don’t feel like you’ve been thrown out of orbit from the safety of his weighted blanket arms and torso.

You stay squarely behind Andrew as he takes you back out into the store. Mr. Stanton is back at the register, helping someone at the checkout, and he gives Pope a ‘wait a second’ gesture as he does. Once he’s done the transaction, he waves the two of you over and hands off a post-it note. “I wrote down everything I could think of about the guy. I wish I could do more, but without credit card records and ID checks, there’s only so much I get.”

Andrew takes the paper and has to suppress a smile. He has exactly what he’ll need.

Stanton gives you a tight smile and tells you both, “Now Officer Charleston, miss, if it’s all the same to you, having the OPD hanging around my store isn’t very…”

Pope raises a hand. “Understood. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Stanton. Have a good day.”

“You too. Hope you find the guy. My daughter’s an omega; I hate knowing there are fuckers like that roaming around the same streets as her.”

Pope reaches into his pocket and takes out a business card. You had no idea he had fake business cards to go along with his fake identities. It almost makes you roll your eyes. He hands it over to Stanton and says, “If she ever has any trouble like that, give me a call. I’ll take care of it personally. For your help.”

Stanton gives an earnest thanks and returns to his work.

Andrew leads you outside with one hand on the small of your back, his protective instincts too activated to avoid ensuring your safety in whatever small way he can. As he guides you into the passenger car of the sleek black SUV he uses for work like this, you ask, “You make house calls for random omegas who might need a hit man?”

He shrugs and gives you a conspiratorial sort of smile. “Never a bad day to kill a rapist.”

It takes Pope less than an hour to track down blondie with the information Stanton put on the post-it note: Namely, a Venmo handle. It’s almost embarrassingly easy; you sort of wish it felt more like a spy movie and less like just Googling a username and getting three different social media accounts with the same handle.

“Tyson Brennan,” Pope says as he turns his phone to you, showing an Instagram profile that definitely belongs to a guy local to Oceanside. You take it in your shaky hand and scroll while Pope narrates his findings: “28, typical asshole, no job I can find, surfs a lot of the same beaches as Deran and Adrian.”

Staring at the top of the account, you whisper, “You have a mutual friend.”

Pope huffs in annoyance, “Craig. Dumbass. This Tyson guy’s probably into illegal shit a lot stronger than menthols.” He shakes his head and brushes your cheek tenderly. “My world is too small for comfort sometimes.”

“Does that mean he’ll recognize you when we grab him?”

Pope shrugs, but the intensity doesn’t fade from his taut expression. “Maybe. Doesn’t change anything.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble with your family over me.”

“In trouble?” He raises an eyebrow and chuckles, “Craig follows about six thousand people on Instagram. If they were close or he was, y’know, a family friend, I would’ve recognized him.” Then, quieter, almost nervous, he adds, more of a promise than anything, “Nothing’s going to stop me from doing this for you. Not my family. Not anything.”

In the passenger seat of Andrew’s Jeep, you bounce your knee as he parks in an alley next to a bar in an iffy part of town. He cuts the engine and kills the headlights, plunging you both into near total darkness, only a flickering lamp hanging over the staff exit coaxing any dimness from the shadows.

“He’ll be out any minute now,” Pope murmurs. He turns to you and checks one last time, “Are you sure about this?”

Your voice is breathless, but you’re still certain. “Yes.”

He cups your face in one nitrile-gloved hand. “Are you scared?”

“Yes,” you reply, “but I’m ready.”

“Then let’s do this.” Pope unzips his, well, murder kit and hands you a capped syringe of something clear and menacing. “I’ll get him on his knees, then you stab this in any major muscle, push hard and fast, and he’ll pass out.”

With a grimace, you take the syringe and examine it. “Very Dexter.”

Andrew wrinkles his nose in a way that would be adorable if he weren’t also tucking his gun and butterfly knife into his tool belt. Actually, it does still manage to be pretty cute. “I never liked that one. Too much mess for my taste.”

You shrug. “He always did a good job cleaning up.”

He gives you a teasing glance. “Better not to make the mess in the first place. And all that single-use plastic – just think of the planet.”

“Andrew Cody the environmentalist,” you snort. Then a shadowy figure emerges from the bar with a cigarette between his fingers and you still. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

“Right on time,” Andrew confirms, lowering his voice to a near growl. You don’t miss how his scent deepens and sharpens into something fierce. “I’ll get out first; hang back until you’re certain I have him restrained, alright? I’ll call for you. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

You nod and work to steady your breathing as Andrew leaps out of the car. He wastes no time lunging at Tyson, relying on the element of surprise to fell the lean man like a dying tree. With the driver’s side door open, you listen carefully to the barely visible conflict. Andrew’s relentless grunts, Tyson’s wailed appeals.

When Pope shouts for you, you’re surprised by how effortlessly your body reacts to the command. The fear melts off, replaced by something else. Something you’re definitely not supposed to experience as an omega.

Wrath.

You cross the space between the Jeep and the men as fast as possible. Tyson thrashes against Pope’s grip but your Andrew is nothing if not steadfast. Unwavering. His hands are iron chains that no man could escape.

Tyson recognizes you.

You can see it in his watery blue eyes when you step into what little light is available in the alley. You’ve seen those eyes in your nightmares. You remember how they looked fully dilated, on the verge of reality. Now, his eyes widen and he moves to speak, but Pope shoves his knee deeper into his spine to stop him. You uncap the needle slowly, careful not to prick yourself, and plunge it just as Pope instructed into the meat of Tyson’s thigh.

When he goes limp in Andrew’s arms, you can’t stop from grinning.

Within an hour, Pope has Tyson strapped to a sturdy chair in one of the empty warehouses the Codys use for…this sort of thing. The cracked concrete floor is already stained in different ages of brownish from years of hostages, torture sessions, and worse. Tyson won’t be the first to die here. Not by a long shot.

But he’ll be your first.

Your first kill.

The feeling settles with a gray kind of discomfort. An itch that needs to be scratched to be gotten rid of.

While Pope lays out supplies on the floor nearby, Tyson begins to stir with a jolt. With a rag gagging his mouth and straps holding him back by the neck, waist, arms, and legs, he can’t do much more than strain and grunt. His eyes aren’t wide anymore; they’re narrow with anger.

You step forward and tug the gag from his mouth, immediately met by teeth gnashing toward your hand. Knowing that Andrew’s right there if anything goes wrong, you fling your palm across his face with as much force as you can muster and sneer, “You’ve bitten me enough already, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t bite you, bitch,” he spits as he strains forward to get at you. Ice coats and hardens your veins. “Wouldn’t give my bite to some worthless slut.”

The way Pope’s scent flares and his fists curl makes your spine tingle; he’s only holding back because you want to be in charge of this. You jam your knee up into Tyson’s gut and slap him again, pleased when he grunts with annoyance. “You’ll stick your disgusting knot in whatever hole your friends pick out and I’m the slut? Couldn’t find an omega who actually wanted you so you take a bigger alpha’s leftovers?”

“I could have any omega I want.” He puts on a cocky smile. His bitter, too-familiar scent makes your stomach turn. “I only did you for the money.”

“Money?” Interest piqued, Pope moves forward and presses the flat of his butterfly knife to Tyson’s neck. “If this attack was for money, then who paid you?”

Tyson smirks like he’s got a getaway car idling outside. “They paid me enough not to tell you.”

“Loyalty’s expensive,” Pope tuts. He digs the edge of the knife in just enough to draw a single bead of blood down his neck every time Tyson swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing helplessly against the blade. “Whatever they paid – that’s what your life’s worth?”

“Please. You’re not gonna kill another alpha for some omega. She’s not even your mate; what’s the point?”

Unceremoniously and without hesitation, Pope shoves the gag back in Tyson’s mouth. He looks at you, expression softening right away, and says, “He won’t say anything that’ll help. He’s just gonna piss us off. Let’s finish this.”

You nod slowly and collect yourself with a roll of your shoulders. Pope warned you about this. How these men would try to egg you both into a rage so they could take advantage and get the upper hand. Your heart’s already pounding and you have to take a few deep, shaky breaths to try to calm it down.

Andrew touches your shoulder gently and murmurs, “You don’t have to do this part, sunshine. I can take care of him.”

But you shake your head and set your jaw. “No. It has to be me. I want to. I need to.”

Pope nods solemnly and starts to explain, “There are a lot of ways to end someone’s life.” He takes a few implements from his black duffel, including your holstered S&W and a 12” knife. Then he takes your hand in his and guides it to the side of Tyson’s neck, right over his rabbit-fast heartbeat. Tyson flinches away from the touch, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “Feel that? That’s the carotid. He’ll die fast if you slice there, but it’ll be a huge mess. A bullet to the head or heart is instant, but the splatter is ridiculous. Especially brains. Trust me; we do not want to spend the night cleaning up brains. They’re sticky and jiggly and-”

“I get the image, Andrew,” you cut him off with a queasy grimace. “Show me what to do.”

“I prefer one clean, easy thrust through the heart,” Pope murmurs, gently lifting the forearm-sized blade. He hands it over to you, helping you wrap your fingers around the black handle. It’s heavier than any kitchen knife you’ve ever held. When he turns back to Tyson, the man’s eyes are full of fear. The realization that you’re not here to get answers out of him. He’s whimpering softly now and not moving, frozen like a shot deer. Pope reaches out, unafraid, and touches Tyson’s chest slightly off center. “If you get the right spot, death is nearly instant. They just…slump over and disappear. No fighting back, no fuss. It’s a lot of blood, but it’s steady. Not overwhelming to deal with.”

Pope sounds almost wistful saying it and, for a second, you think about how many times he must’ve been in this position. You know he doesn’t relish in the work he does for his family, but doing it for you must feel different.

“The only thing,” he goes on, bringing you forward a step by the small of your back, “is that it takes more force than you’d think to get through the breastplate. You don’t want to wind up and jam down haphazardly; you want to be precise and clean. So it has to be firm, even pressure.” He leans into Tyson’s face and sneers at his crying eyes, “No need to make the poor man suffer more than he already has.”

With a slow nod, you point the knife to Tyson’s chest. Both your limbs and your voice shake. “Hold my hands so I can tell how much pressure, okay? Help me.”

“I’ve got you, pup,” he assures, lining up his body behind yours, his chest pressing into your back, his hips tilting into yours. A sadistic sort of embrace. You feel the power of his foreboding body pulsing through yours. Andrew wraps his warm, large hand around yours and maneuvers the point of the knife down an inch and over a bit, atop the widest part of the muscle. He angles the knife for maximum impact. Then he moves his left hand to your waist, steadying your body, and murmurs against your ear, “Deep breath.”

With Pope’s hand cradling yours tenderly as a lover’s, you shove the large blade through the near-center of your rapist’s chest like you’re cutting your wedding cake. Tyson lets out one final, wheezing grunt as Andrew helps you tug the knife back out.

Something releases inside of you as you watch the life fade and shrink out of Tyson’s eyes. The level of relief that shudders down your spine frightens you, but it’s addictive, too. Especially when you look over your shoulder and see Andrew gazing at you with features made of pride.

You whisper to him, "Thank you."

The knife clatters to the floor and you're flooded with too many emotions to name. Andrew wraps you in his arms as you begin to shake. He kisses the side of your head and murmurs, "Four to go."

Late that night, after Pope’s dropped you off at home, left, and then returned from cleaning up your mess (he insisted on doing that part alone and you didn’t argue), you’re rummaging through his medicine cabinet for something to take the edge off your sore back when you make a discovery that changes the trajectory of your life.

Staring down at the large prescription pill bottle in your hand, you shout into the house, “Andrew? Can you come here a sec?”

His footsteps start immediately; your voice is an order to him. He pokes his head around the bathroom’s door frame. His sweet boyish curls are still damp from showering. “Need something?”

Then his eyes fall to the bottle in your hand. Before he can ask, you do. “Why are you on Ferotrex?”

Andrew shrugs, barely even giving it a thought. “I had those feral episodes when I was younger, remember?”

“Ferotrex is supposed to be a temporary medication,” you tell him carefully. Gauging his every reaction. Pope always works hard not to give much away with his features, but you can see the confusion plain as day in the crinkle of his brow. You go on, “I learned about it when I worked at that crisis clinic before the hospital. They give it to alphas in acute feral episodes to calm them down in the moment. You’re not supposed to take more than a couple consecutive doses.”

Andrew chews on that. He flexes his fingers and you can tell he’s trying to put puzzle pieces together in his mind. When his voice comes out, it’s tentative: “What do you mean?”

Brows furrowed, you pull out your phone, scroll for a long time, and open up the old work training document that made you think of it. Andrew comes in close, chin resting on your shoulder, and listens with quiet rage building inside him. “Here, look. ‘Ferotrex and similar pheromone-stopping medications should only be used as a last resort when a patient cannot be calmed with other interventions due to their serious side effects. Only administer up to three doses in order to prevent long-term complications.’”

Things start to click together. Not wanting to believe it even as the dots connect, he bashfully mutters, “What are the, ah, the long-term complications?”

“Insomnia, obsessive thoughts, anxiety, suppressed libido, sexual dysfunction, reduced muscle growth,” you read off the next page. You turn around, breathlessly close to Andrew, and hold his bicep. “I’m not a doctor or anything, but, from what I picked up at the clinic, Ferotrex is basically a tranquilizer for alphas.” You examine his unreadable expression and ask gently, already knowing the answer, “Do you see a doctor for these? Did a professional tell you to take them every day?”

Blinking fast – you see tears threatening his hazel eyes and he hates crying – Andrew sighs and confirms the harsh reality: “Smurf picks them up for me. She’s always- she’s always handled that.”

As you think about how much he’s gone through because of his mother’s cowardice and selfishness, you whisper, “She’s…sedating you, Andrew. She’s using these to control you. To stop you from being yourself.”

It hangs for a while. Neither of you speak. You watch as a tear slips over Andrew’s waterline and tarnishes his clean, pink cheek. He doesn’t sniffle or sob. Just cries like that. Silently.

In the space of an instant, Pope thinks back on his life since he presented as an alpha. That list of effects has been a roadmap of his adult life. Anxious, obsessive, emotionally stunted. Sleeping four hours on a good night. Never as big as others despite working out constantly. And…the other pieces. He won’t tell you because it’s too shameful, but he’s never even had a knot. Never been able to on these meds. He realizes in a moment of total clarity that he’s been chemically castrated, his very status as an alpha stripped away.

And Smurf has always let him believe all of that – weaknesses and heartbreaks and insecurities – is just who Andrew Cody is. He’s heard that refrain a thousand times over the last decade. 

That’s just Pope.

That’s just how he is.

That’s just his personality.

The next thought has enough power to break him: What if it doesn’t have to be?

Suddenly you hug him fiercely. So tight it hurts your arms. You dig your fingers into his back and press your nose to his neck and cry with him.

He lets you.

Andrew clings to you. Nestles into your shoulder, breathes in the warm cinnamon of your scent gland, feels the wholeness of your love for him. The way you care for him how nobody else ever has, even and especially his family.

Then the natural continuation hits him at once: Without those meds, he could be someone else. Something closer to who he wants to be.

Andrew breathes, so quiet you’d miss it if you weren’t waiting for him to speak, “So, without these pills, I could- I could change. Get better. Feel better.” Even softer, he whisper-weeps, “I could fall in love. I could have a mate. A family. I could- I could rest. I could sleep. Oh, god, I could sleep.” His voice breaks. “Is that what this means?”

Because he hasn’t pulled back from the embrace, you don’t either. You let him hold you as tight as he needs, both your breaths hard and intense. Mouth softly brushing the skin of his shoulder, you reply, “I don’t know what it means, Andrew, but I know you’ll be better off. I know you’ll be in control, not someone else.”

Andrew slowly releases you. His eyes rove over you: Your face that he sees whenever you’re away, your body that calls to his in dreams. It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. Seeing not just you but the possibility of you.

He gives one sharp nod, takes the bottle from your hand, dumps the pills into the toilet, and flushes. “Let’s get some sleep, sunshine.”

He didn't even make it to the front porch before the flashing red and blue lights cut through the night fog. An ambulance was parked crookedly across the driveway, its rear doors thrown wide open.

"Fuck, fuck," Andrew muttered. "Fuck, no."

He burst through the front door. The living room was empty, the coffee table had been pushed aside, a box of sweets overturned on the rug.

He followed the sound of murmuring voices down the hallway and into the bedroom.

The scene made him stop dead in his tracks, his frame filling the doorway.

A paramedic was kneeling by the side of the bed, a spiked bag of IV fluids hanging from the lampshade. Another paramedic was carefully taping a catheter into the back of your hand, a dark bruise already forming on your forearm where they had missed the first time.

You were propped up on the pillows. Your skin was pale, with a cold sweat that made your hair stick to your forehead in damp clumps. Your eyes were half open, glazed and unfocused, rolling toward the ceiling. A small emesis bag was clutched in your trembling, non-IV hand.

This wasn’t just a bad blood sugar day. The tiny life growing inside you had turned your body into a battleground. For weeks, the nausea episodes had been brutal, but tonight, it had turned catastrophic. You had taken your insulin expecting to eat, but the severe nausea had hit. Everything went up. Every time you tried to correct the crashing numbers with juice or sweets, your body violently rejected it.

Your glucose monitor had been screaming a frantic alarm, signaling your blood sugar had plummeted past 40 mg/dL with a double arrow pointing straight down. With Andrew out on a job, you had been utterly alone, suffocating in panic.

"What's happening? What are you doing to her?" Andrew’s voice was low. His eyes were darting from the IV line to your pale face, then down to your belly.

"Andrew," you sobbed.

The female paramedic stood up, putting herself between Andrew and the bed. "Sir, are you the partner? She called us. Her blood sugar dropped into a critical range. She’s pregnant and suffering from severe vomiting, she can’t keep anything down. Every time she tries to correct a low, she throws it back up, which is a severe emergency for both her and the pregnancy."

Andrew didn't look at the medic. He didn't care about her explanations. He pushed past her and dropped heavily onto his knees right beside the mattress. He grabbed your free hand, squeezing it.

"I'm here, baby. I'm sorry," he whispered. He pressed his forehead against your knuckles. The weight of his guilt was crushing him. "I didn't see the phone. I'm sorry."

"I tried, Andrew," you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek. "I tried to eat. I tried to keep it down for the baby, but it just kept coming back up. I got so scared... I thought I was gonna pass out or something was wrong with the baby."

"I know, I know. You did the right thing," he murmured, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. He looked up at the paramedic, demanding. "Is the baby okay? Is she okay?"

"We've started a dextrose infusion to bring her numbers up safely without forcing her stomach to digest anything," the male paramedic explained, adjusting the roller clamp on the IV tubing. "Her blood sugar is up to 70 now and climbing. But because she’s pregnant and unable to retain fluids, she is at a very high risk for another crash. We highly recommend transporting her to the hospital so OB/GYN can evaluate her."

"No," you breathed, a wave of panic hitting you. The thought of being in a hospital room made your chest tighten. "Andrew, please. Don't make me go."

Andrew looked at you, then down at the IV line tape on your hand. His jaw clenched, a possessive instinct taking over. He could protect you here. He could control things here.

"She stays," Andrew said, his voice flat, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. He stood up. "Tell me what I need to do. I'll monitor her. I'll make sure she stays stable."

The paramedics exchanged a tense look. They checked your vitals again. Your heart rate was coming down; your color was slowly returning as the IV sugar did its job.

"If she stays against medical advice, you need to sign these refusal forms," the female paramedic said quietly, pulling a tablet from her bag. "The anti-nausea medication we gave her through the IV should last for a few hours. You need to try giving her small sips of water every fifteen minutes once we leave. If she throws up even once more, or if her monitor alarms again, you cannot handle this at home. She will need to be admitted. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Andrew said, his voice tight. He took the stylus and scrawled his signature on the screen, his hand surprisingly steady for how fast his adrenaline was pumping.

It took another ten minutes for the medics to pack up their gear, leave extra supplies on the nightstand, and finally exit the house. The quiet that settled over the bedroom afterward was heavy.

"Hey," he whispered. With care, mindful of the taped IV site on the back of your hand, he slid into the bed beside you. He pulled you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you until you were entirely enclosed in his embrace.

You let out a shaky breath, burying your face into the crook of his neck. The familiar scent of him instantly soothed the knots of panic in your chest.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," you murmured against his skin, your voice still a little raspy but stronger now that the dextrose was fully doing its job.

"Don't do that," Andrew muttered, pressing a kiss into your hair. "Don't apologize. You did everything right. You kept our baby safe. You kept you safe. I’m the one who should’ve been here."

"You're here now," you reminded him softly.

He didn't argue. He reached over to the nightstand where the paramedics had left a bottle of light colored sports drink. He carefully unscrewed the cap, guiding the bottle to your lips.

"Small sips, okay? Just a little bit," he instructed, his eyes focused on you as you took two tiny swallows. He watched your face closely, waiting to see if your stomach would reject it, but the IV anti-nausea medication was holding strong. When you gave him a small nod, a relief washed over his face. He set the bottle back down and settled back into the pillows, pulling you right back into his warmth.

His hand slid beneath the duvet, moving down until his palm rested against your stomach. It was still early enough that there wasn't a noticeable bump, but to Andrew, the gravity of what was growing inside you was immense. He kept his hand perfectly still, as if he could shield the baby from the chaotic world outside with his palm alone.

"I called out of the next job while the medics were packing up," he whispered, his lips brushing the crown of your head. "Texted Smurf. Told her I'm out for the week. I don't care what she says."

You blinked up at him, surprised. "Andrew, the boys—"

"The boys can handle it. Or they can't. I don't care," he said. "You and the baby. That's it. That's all that matters to me right now. I'm staying right here. I'm going to make you breakfast tomorrow, whatever you think you can keep down. Toast, tea, whatever you want."

A smile touched your lips. "Toast sounds good."

"Okay," he murmured, his thumb beginning a slow stroke against your hip. "Then we'll do toast."

You closed your eyes. The terror of the midnight was replaced entirely by the protective safety of his arms.

The bedroom fell into a deep quiet. The anti-nausea medication had finally allowed your body to rest, and exhaustion had claimed you completely. Your features relaxed, the tension draining from your face as you drifted into a deep sleep.

Andrew didn’t close his eyes. He couldn't. The adrenaline was still humming faintly in his veins.

Careful not to disturb you, he shifted slightly, adjusting his weight so you were pillowed comfortably against his shoulder. His hand stayed right where it was, slipping under the soft cotton of your shirt to rest directly against the bare skin of your stomach.

His hand looked massive against your skin, but the way he pressed his palm flat was so gentle it was as if he were holding a fragile glass.

He began to move his thumb in tiny and slow circles, feeling the warmth of your skin.

He looked down at your sleeping face, verifying one more time that you were breathing easily, before he leaned his head down. He lowered his face until his lips were just inches away from your belly.

"Hey," he breathed, the sound catching in his throat. It was the first time he had spoken directly to the pregnancy. "It’s me. It’s your dad."

He paused. The word dad felt foreign on his tongue, heavy and terrifying, but as he stared at your peaceful face, a fierce wave of pride swallowed the fear.

"I'm sorry about tonight," he whispered. "I wasn't here when it got bad. But I’m here now. I promise you, I’m always gonna be here. I’m never gonna let anything happen to you. Or your mom."

He rested his cheek lightly against your upper hip, his hand splaying wider across your lower belly, feeling the slight rise and fall of your breath. For a man who had been raised in the manipulative shadow of Smurf, a man who had been taught that family was a business and loyalty was paid in blood, this felt entirely different. This was clean. This was pure.

"You're gonna have a good life," Andrew murmured, his voice vibrated right against your skin. "You’re gonna have a room with windows that gets the sun. You’re gonna have toys, and whatever you want to eat, and... and we're gonna keep you safe. No one is ever gonna hurt you."

He closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing you both in. The thought of a little girl or a little boy with your eyes, running around the house made him feel new things. A warmth filled the empty spaces he had carried for decades.

He lifted his head back up, pressing a soft kiss to your belly, right over the tiny heartbeat he couldn't wait to hear.

"Just grow big," he whispered, settling back into the pillows and pulling you closer against his side. "We're waiting for you."

He kept his hand against your little bump, the slow rhythm of his thumb never stopping as he watched over the two of you.

-'🖤⛓ ⁠*⁠.⁠‧₊˚