Spending his heat with two alphas was ill-advised. Spending his heat with a Captain who wants him dead when he isn't aroused and a pilot who'd kill him on behalf of said pilot if it came down to it was just moronic.
Getting pregnant as the founder of a private military company at his age is just idiocy at its finest.
Graves knows there are signs already. The subtle change in his scent, that milky undertone that sends heads turning his way if he's in a grocery store because he chose not to wear scent blockers. Feeling nauseated by red meat, despite his biggest joy in life being the break in his diet to demolish a fat cheeseburger. The night in which he ate an entire pack of sugar cookies and could have eaten at least six more.
He feels like a fool; he's been accused of acting such on various occasions, but never has he so wholeheartedly lived up to the name.
But he's a tactical man, and survival is typically useful, so he utilises his situation to the best of his ability and happens to accidentally stumble across one John Price and his partner on their own turf in the UK. Coincidentally, he left his scent blockers at home. Tragic how these things happen, really.
Nikolai looks both unfathomably fuckable and amused when he slips into a seat at their table in their apparent old-timey bar of choice. John's fist clenches on the table, and the man glares at him through steely, narrowed eyes.
If Graves could have recorded the look on their faces as realisation hit, he would have. The change in Nikolai's posture, from comfortably slouched in his chair to a straight back and shoulders. John's eyes widening, the flare of his nostrils as he takes in the change in his scent and the implications of it.
"Well, fellas, I think we have some talking to do."
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