Chapter Text
My mom is going to kill me.
That was all nineteen-year-old Olivia “Rook” Rooker could think as she stared down at her bathroom sink in disbelief. Four white and pink sticks were all lined up next to each other, each glaring up at her with the exact same result in the tiny, sunken result window.
Two lines.
Positive.
It had been one time. Literally a single night, the one time in the two years she’d been having sex that she forgot a condom. She hadn’t planned on a one-night stand, really. She was just out with some of her teammates after they won their first college game, and she’d been so high on the win and the fact that her older friend, Jessie, kept buying her drinks. Some hot, older, red-headed guy with some insanely sexy scars had plopped down at the bar while she was on the dance floor. She remembered sitting by him to order a drink, she remembered flirting with him. She vaguely remembered him throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her into her apartment while she laughed.
And she sure as hell remembered him not wearing a condom.
Rook couldn’t say it hadn’t been enjoyable; the only other sexual experiences she’d had were with both of her ex-boyfriends. Both had been much younger than this man, and clearly less experienced.
He’d made her see colors she hadn’t known existed.
The man, who she remembered was named Jacob, had gotten up before she did. He made some breakfast and sat and talked with her. Neither of them were looking for a relationship, and he was headed out of state. It was perfect; they’d had one more go before he had to leave, and that was that.
But then as time went on, Rook was getting more and more exhausted. Her favorite snack, Cool Ranch Dorito’s, suddenly smelled terrible. Just thinking about them made her feel sick. Her breasts hurt, and she had been standing in front of the mirror and wondering if she should get back to Victoria’s Secret to get re-sized when it hit her.
One panicked trip to the drugstore and three bottles of water later, and here she was.
Tears welled up in her eyes, streaking down her tanned skin before she could stop them. Rook didn’t bother to wipe them away; she couldn’t tell if it was pregnancy hormones or if the severity of her situation was finally setting it. Most likely both. But she had no idea what to do.
Hands still shaking, she grabbed her cellphone and dialed her mother’s number.
Eight months later…
The off-white walls of the maternity ward were somewhat soothing as the nurse helped Rook into her new hospital bed. It was much more comfortable than the one she’d given birth on, but then again, it had been an extremely short delivery. Her water broke, and after that, it had barely been three hours before her baby was in her arms.
She was beautiful. Thick, dark hair was now combed softly against her head, with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. Her lips were pursed as she slept soundly, itty-bitty eyelids closed over two large blue eyes.
Rook was in love as soon as she saw her.
Abigail Olivia Rooker was born at 9:30 p.m. on May 20th, 2012. She lit up every single room she was in; she just had a talent of wrapping everyone around her little finger. Olivia loved her to death, with her adorable laugh and her love of the color blue.
Rook had been working odd jobs to support the two of them, but when she turned twenty-four, she knew what she really wanted. Her own father was a retired police officer, with over twenty years on the force. The young woman wanted nothing more than to show her daughter what women could do, what she could be capable of if she put her mind and heart into something.
Rook had been a cop for a year when she was transferred to the Hope County Sheriff’s office, which was fine. It was a quiet little town in Montana, meaning some freedom for her and Abby. The now six-year-old was an active little thing, with a special love of monkey bars and basketball. The deputy herself had been raised on hunting and mudding in pickup trucks, so she was more than excited to move them out to the country.
But if she’d known what was waiting for the two of them, she would have refused the transfer. She would have quit the force entirely.
She would have done anything.
Jacob Seed had never forgotten Olivia.
Despite not knowing her last name (or her middle one, for that matter,) he found himself subconsciously comparing her to every other woman he was with after that. Of course, he’d slept with a fair share after getting back from Iraq. But despite all the booze, the girls, and the gambling, nothing ever put him at ease or drove him wild like she had. That single, mind-blowing, so-long-but-not-long-enough, perfect night.
He was having nightmares again, seeing Millers face everywhere he went, and so he went to the nearest bar in the college town he was in. It was a bad move on his part; the amount of frat guys and annoying drunk children around him only served to piss him off further.
And then he’d seen her.
With black hair that ran to her waist, intense blue eyes, and a body like nothing he’d ever seen. He knew it wasn’t quite appropriate; she looked like she was barely out of high school. But when she’d plopped down next to him in that low cut shirt and that tiny denim skirt to get the drinks for her and her friends, he couldn’t help himself. They were talking, then her hand was on his chest, then they were in a taxi making out, and next thing he knew he just couldn’t hold back anymore.
It was a one-time thing, he knew that. He’d bee going out of state the next day, still looking for a permanent home. And no way in hell would a hot young thing like her get into a permanent relationship with a man over ten years her senior.
So, he made damn sure she would remember him.
When he was alone, in the shower or his bed, he could still smell her, hear her moaning or crying out. Sometimes he dreamed about her. But he was certain she’d graduated college with a degree, got married to some accountant or whatever, and was living in some bullshit suburbia with three kids, a dog and a husband.
It irked him sometimes, but he’d brushed it off.
But Saturday night, he dreamed of her again.
Thick black locks spread out around her, eyes screwed shut, mouth open as she cried out and moaned, saying his name, begging him. When he woke up, he growled and nearly punched a hole through his mattress in longing. Even using his own hand was nearly enough.
It seemed he was doomed to never find someone as good as her again.
But when that bird touched down right outside the compound and those cops walked into the church, he knew things were going to change.
He’d make sure of it.