The house smelled of antiseptic and sweat, the echoes of Stiles’ screams still clinging to the walls. Hours of labor had finally ended, and the midwife handed her the tiny, wriggling body that slid free of her.

A baby boy.

Thick tufts of dark hair, the exact shade of Derek’s. A strong jawline already visible even in his newborn softness.

Stiles sobbed as she cradled him, exhausted but glowing. “He’s perfect…”

Derek leaned down, his hand huge against the baby’s tiny back. His grin was feral, proud. “Eli,” he said firmly. “Eli Hale.”

Stiles whispered the name like a prayer, pressing her lips to her son’s head.

Scott stood awkwardly near the bed, heart in pieces. The baby looked nothing like him. Not a trace. He looked like Derek in miniature.

But when the infant whimpered, Scott’s instinct pulled him forward. “He needs swaddling,” Scott murmured, gently taking the tiny boy in his arms. Eli fit so small against his chest, breathing soft and innocent. Scott’s throat tightened. “Don’t cry, little guy… I’ve got you.”

The midwife quietly left, sensing the tension in the room.

That night, Stiles slept, drained from labor. Derek didn’t. He sprawled back in the chair, watching Scott rock Eli by the crib, humming softly.

“You really do have a soft heart, don’t you?” Derek said, smirking.

Scott looked down at the baby, avoiding Derek’s eyes. “He didn’t ask to be born into this… He’s innocent. He deserves love.”

Derek’s grin widened. “Good. Then you’ll take care of him. Feed him, change him, rock him… while I take care of your wife.”

Scott froze, chest aching at the word your wife.

Days blurred into nights. Scott became Eli’s shadow. Bottle-feeding him when Stiles was sore from nursing, burping him against his shoulder, cleaning the spit-up from his shirts. He sang lullabies in hushed tones when the baby cried at 2 a.m.

Every time Scott thought maybe Derek would let things calm, the opposite happened. Derek fucked Stiles louder now. In the shower. Against the wall. On the kitchen table. On the couch while Scott bounced Eli in his arms only a few feet away.

One afternoon, Stiles leaned over the back of the couch, tits heavy with milk, while Derek drove into her from behind. She moaned shamelessly, eyes glazed, one hand squeezing her dripping breast.

Scott sat on the floor only a few feet away, rocking Eli in the cradle. The baby cooed softly, blissfully unaware, while his parents filled the air with the wet slap of skin and Stiles’ breathless cries.

Scott’s cock stirred against his jeans despite the humiliation. He rocked the cradle harder, pretending not to hear—pretending not to love how powerless he was.

Another night, Scott stumbled sleepily into the nursery to check on Eli, only to find Stiles already there — bent over the crib, tits leaking as Derek fucked her hard from behind.

Eli gurgled in his sleep, untouched by the chaos around him.

Scott froze in the doorway, eyes burning.

Derek caught his stare and smirked. “What? You’re supposed to be watching him, aren’t you? Go on, Scott — rock the crib while I fuck his mama right over him.”

Shame burned through Scott, but his body obeyed. He stepped closer, placed his hand gently on the cradle, rocking Eli while Derek slammed into Stiles so hard she nearly collapsed against the bars.

Her milk dripped down, splattering the sheets as she sobbed in pleasure. “Ohh God, Derek — right here, yes, breed me again!”

Scott’s hand shook on the cradle. His cock was painfully hard, his heart splitting, his body betraying him.

The baby slept peacefully, unaware of the filth surrounding him.

The next morning, Scott changed Eli’s diaper while Derek sat at the kitchen table, Stiles riding him shamelessly, tits bouncing as milk dripped down her belly.

Scott cooed softly at the baby, ignoring the sounds behind him. “It’s okay, Eli. Daddy’s here.”

But he knew — he wasn’t talking about Derek.

He was talking about himself.