“Perfect,” Jessa said, pulling the massive stewpot forward and placing it on the cooktop. “I’ll warm it up and make some biscuits.”
Anders hopped up and started pulling supplies together while she turned on the oven. She glanced around the room.
Hollis emerged from his office, scanning the contents of a file as he crossed the room and went out the other side.
“When did Hollis get here?” she asked, smiling at Finn.
“A few hours ago,” Finn said, smiling back.
“Good to see he’s relaxing,” she teased.
But Finn’s smile tightened. She frowned at him, glancing after Hollis. “Where’s Ellen?” she asked.
Dante cleared his throat, “Hollis is talking to her. We’re keeping her in one of the secure—”
“No,” Jessa slapped her wooden spoon the lip of the bowl. “She’s not a prisoner. Finn, she gave me her word she’d help me. For crying out loud, she saved my life. I think a little trust isn’t asking too much.”
“Trust her? So, she can hurt you? Or Oscar?” Finn ran his fingers through his hair, a sure sign of his agitation. “Dammit, Jessa, I just got you back. I’m not putting you at risk.”
“She has something to gain from this.” Jessa paused, drawing all eyes on her. “She said there had been no pups—babies—born in years. She thinks I, this pregnancy, might help her understand why.”
“So Cyrus and his pack can make more of their kind?” Dante snapped.
“Their kind?” Ellen’s voice was low, pausing just inside the kitchen, Hollis close behind. “Are we not the same?” she asked, glancing around the room. “Our hatred is mutual, no need to pretend otherwise. But the mate is right. My pack suffers cruelly.”
“Please, sit.” Hollis walked around her and pulled a chair out at the table. “Civility is the only chance we stand of a successful collaboration. Let’s try?”
She sat, stiffly, nodding at Hollis.
“How are you feeling Ellen?” Jessa asked, rolling out the dough.
Ellen nodded again.
“Hungry?” she asked.
Ellen looked at her, her mismatched eyes intent as they regarded her. “Did you tell her?” she asked, glancing at Hollis.
Hollis shook his head. “No. I was waiting for the opportune time. Which, apparently, is now.”
“I see no point delaying,” Ellen said. “We have four months before—”
“Fine,” Hollis interrupted. “Cara’s death was expedited by the car accident. But she would have died before Oscar was born. And, chances are, Oscar would have died as well.”
“Four months?” Finn asked.
“Wolves gestate for two months. Humans for nine. Werewolves fall somewhere in the middle,” Ellen explained, sounding bored.
That explained why the pregnancy test showed positive so early—and why she was already experiencing symptoms. But not much time. Jessa stopped rolling the dough, the roller suddenly too heavy to move.
“I got this Jessa,” Anders took the rolling pin.
“Four months?” Finn repeated.
“Jesus,” Dante groaned, covering his face.
Finn was at her side, his arm wrapped around her waist. His feather-light kiss, against her temple, calmed her. But she still relied on him to guide her to a chair at the table. He sat next to her, capturing her hand in his.
“Cara was seeing a hematologist, often. They had no idea what was going on, noting everything from a possible rare infection she’d picked up on an international shoot to alcoholism or, possibly, prolonged narcotics use. Everything was a stretch, but the doctor did try, I’ll give him that. It looks like she had several blood transfusions. Then, because of the constant increase in kidney function, her kidneys began to fail so they tried a form of dialysis, to clean the blood. She seemed to improve initially, but—” he paused, tapping the file he’d been reading. “But the further along, the more blood, the more waste in her system. Without those enzymes and proteins being absorbed, they’d be recycled to the baby. And they’d grow weaker, sicker until…” He shook his head. “The crash was probably the only thing that saved Oscar.”