Epilogue
Tessa
Six months ago, I left my suppressants in a car buried under six feet of snow.
Best mistake I ever made.
Now I’m sitting on the porch swing Elijah built—wide enough for all four of us, angled perfectly toward the mountains—rubbing circles over my belly while my alphas’ combined scents drift through the open windows of the house we share.
Cedarwood and honey from Elijah’s workshop. Leather and musk from Ben’s jacket on the couch. Dark chocolate and amber from the shirt Milo left draped over the kitchen chair this morning.
And underneath it all, woven through every room, my own scent. Lavender and citrus, now permanently laced with theirs. Pack-scent. Ours.
I breathe it in and feel the bond marks on my neck pulse with warmth.
Three of them, layered together. Milo’s on the left—the first to claim me.
Ben’s on the right—a little rougher, placed with three years of want behind it.
Elijah’s at the back of my neck—deliberate and grounding, completing the set.
The man has never met a boundary he didn’t charm his way past.
The babies shift inside me, and I spread my palm wider over the swell of my stomach.
Twins.
When Dr. Lucas told us, Ben sat down on the floor of the exam room.
Just folded like someone had cut his strings.
Milo laughed until tears streamed down his face.
Elijah went completely still, then crossed the room in two strides and lifted me off the table, burying his face in my neck while a low purr rumbled through his chest.
“You okay?” the nurse had asked, looking concerned.
“More than okay,” Elijah had said against my skin, still purring. “Perfect.”
We did the math later. Turns out, when you spend three days snowed into a cabin with three alphas during an unexpected heat—when you’re too desperate and too full to remember anything as practical as protection—consequences happen. I was already pregnant when they bonded me. We just didn’t know it.
“Surprise,” I’d managed when we figured out the timeline.
“Best surprise,” Ben had corrected, pressing his forehead to my belly. “Best damn surprise of my life. Though I’m adding this to the list of things your clipboard didn’t plan for.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” He’d grinned up at me, that infuriating, irresistible grin. “You love me. You loved me so much you let me knock you up during a blizzard.”
“That’s not how biology works.”
“Details.”
Now I’m six months along, massive, and sharing a house with three alphas. The perfectionist event planner who color-coded her entire life, living with a man who thinks “we’ll figure it out” counts as a plan.
And I’ve never been happier.
The sound of a saw drifts up from the workshop, and I feel Elijah’s contentment pulse through the bond—steady and warm, like sunlight through glass.
He’s working on the cribs. Two of them, hand-carved from local pine, with little bears along the headboards because I mentioned once that I thought the bear salt shaker at Millie’s was cute.
That was three months ago. He remembered.
I push myself up from the swing—three attempts, creative maneuvering, one hand braced on the armrest—and waddle down toward the workshop. My center of gravity is a joke now. My feet are a distant memory. But the path is worn smooth from all my trips down here to watch him work.
The door is open, letting summer air mix with sawdust. Elijah stands at his workbench, forearms flexing as he guides the wood, dark hair dusted with pine shavings.
His scent wraps around me the moment I step inside—cedarwood and honey and something deeper, darker, that still makes my thighs clench even after six months of having him whenever I want.
He looks up when I appear in the doorway. His nostrils flare slightly, reading my scent the way he always does. Then the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” I lean against the doorframe, one hand on my belly. “Coming along?”
He sets down his tools and crosses to me, fitting his palms over mine on the bump. The babies kick against his hands, and his purr starts up—low and automatic, vibrating through his chest into mine.
“Active today,” he murmurs.
“They’re fighting today. I think Baby A has a future in MMA.”
“Taking after Ben.”
“God, I hope not. One of him is enough.”
His almost-smile deepens. He leans down to press his lips to my bond mark, and I shiver as warmth floods through me. Even now, even pregnant and swollen and uncomfortable, his mouth on that spot makes heat pool low in my belly.
“Elijah.” It comes out breathier than I intended.
“Mm.” He doesn’t pull away. His tongue traces the scar tissue, and I grip his shoulders.
“I came down here to check on the cribs.”
“Did you.” His teeth graze the mark, and I gasp.
“The cribs are—” I lose the thread of the sentence when his hands slide from my belly to my hips, pulling me closer. Or as close as my stomach allows. “—very nice.”
“They’re almost done.” He’s purring louder now, the sound rumbling against my throat. “But I’m not.”
“We’re in your workshop.”
“I know.”
“There’s sawdust everywhere.”
“I know.” He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and the heat in his gaze makes my breath catch. “I’ve wanted you all morning. Your scent’s been driving me crazy.”
Pregnancy hormones, Dr. Lucas had warned us. They can intensify omega scent. Make alphas more responsive.
He wasn’t wrong.
“The babies—”
“Are fine.” His hand slides up my side, thumb brushing the underside of my breast. “And you smell like you want me too.”
I do. God, I do. Even now, even tired and huge and convinced I look like a whale in yoga pants, I want him. Want all of them, constantly, in a way that would’ve embarrassed me six months ago.
Now I just pull his mouth down to mine.
He kisses me slow and deep, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other splayed possessive across my belly. His purr never stops. The babies kick against his palm, and he smiles against my lips.
“Later,” I manage when we break apart. “Ben’s coming home soon.”
“I know.” He presses one more kiss to my bond mark. “I can wait.”
He can’t, actually. None of them can. But I appreciate the pretense.
I leave him to his cribs and make my way back up to the house, my body thrumming with want and pack-bond warmth. The house used to be just Elijah’s—quiet, sparse, everything functional and nothing more. Now it’s ours in every way that matters.
I’ve nested the hell out of it. Soft throws draped over the couch in deep greens and warm creams. Photos everywhere—the ultrasound pinned to the fridge, the four of us at the spring festival on the mantle, a candid Bea took of Milo kissing my cheek while Ben pretends to gag in the background.
Candles on every surface because pregnancy has made me obsessed with how things smell.
A reading nook by the window that Elijah built after he caught me curled up on the floor with a book one too many times.
Ben’s cabin—the one where we got snowed in, where everything started—is our weekend escape now. Somewhere to disappear when the town gets too loud and we need just the four of us. But this place is home.
My organizational systems have colonized the kitchen. Color-coded labels on the pantry shelves. A whiteboard calendar by the fridge. Meal prep containers arranged by date in the freezer, because some habits die hard.
But the rest of the house tells a different story.
Ben’s jacket thrown over the couch. Milo’s collection of weird hot sauces crowding the fridge door.
Elijah’s wood shavings drifting into corners no matter how much I sweep.
A nest in the bedroom that takes up half the floor—blankets and pillows and stolen clothing arranged in careful layers, rebuilt weekly because I can’t stop touching it.
I used to think I needed control to feel safe. Schedules and backup plans and contingencies for the contingencies. I used to think if I just organized everything perfectly, nothing could hurt me.
Turns out what I needed was three alphas who wrecked every plan I ever made.
The rumble of Ben’s truck reaches me before I see it—that same truck that broke down seventeen times while he was trying to avoid me. The one that stranded him at the community center the night of the bachelor auction. The one he’s finally fixed properly, now that he’s not running anymore.
He parks and climbs out, already grinning when he spots me on the porch.
“There she is. My favorite pregnant person.”
“I’m the only pregnant person you know.”
“Still my favorite.” He takes the steps two at a time and drops a kiss on my mouth, then crouches to press another to my belly. “How are my chaos babies?”
“Energetic. I think they’re practicing for the Olympics in there.”
“That’s my girls.”
“We don’t know they’re girls.”
“I have a feeling.” He says this every time. His hand spreads warm over my stomach, and I feel his satisfaction pulse through the bond—bright and teasing, like sunlight on water. “Elijah still in his workshop?”
“Making cribs.”
“He’s been at those things for weeks. You know he carved little details inside the headboards? Where the babies will literally never see them?”
“That’s so Elijah.”
“That’s our boy.” Ben straightens and pulls me close—or as close as my belly allows. His scent wraps around me, leather and musk and warmth. “Milo’s shift ends at six. Thought we’d go down to the bar. Get some dinner.”
“You mean I’d go down to the bar, eat all his fries, and pay for nothing?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” He grins. “Some traditions are sacred.”
It started during the blizzard—before we’d bonded, before I’d admitted what I wanted, before everything changed. Milo bringing me food I didn’t ask for. Me eating it anyway. The first crack in my defenses.
Now it’s our thing. Three or four nights a week, we pile into Ben’s truck and drive to The Barn Bar. Milo works his magic behind the counter, and I sit in my usual spot and watch him charm the whole room.