DAMIAN
Fifteen years later.
The album's leather cover feels soft beneath my palms, worn smooth from countless viewings over the years. Dusty curls against me on the oversized armchair, her honey-blonde hair—now threaded with a few silver strands that catch the lamplight—tumbling over my shoulder as she turns another page.
"God, look at us." Her finger traces the edge of a photo from that Black Box event, the one that changed everything. She's young there, polished and nervous, her hazel eyes impossibly wide. "I was terrified."
"You were perfect." I trace the necklace captured in the photograph, the one that recorded Elias's threats. "My little thief turned princess."
She swats my chest. "Your little thief who could barely hold a fork properly."
The next page reveals our wedding—Dusty ethereal in lace, her belly was pregnant with Macky. My throat tightens at her radiance, at how she'd trembled saying her vows.
"Eighteen years old now." Dusty's voice drops to wonder. "Macky's my age when we first met."
"Don't remind me." I press my lips to her temple. "Some college boy's going to look at her the way I looked at you, and I'll have to bury a body."
"Daddy." The word holds gentle reproach and lingering heat.
We flip forward—newborn Jane with her father's gray eyes, then Macky at three days old, his fists curled tight.
Kate's first smile. Then, Leo and Emma, screaming in tandem at their baptism.
Little Thomas with frosting all over his face at his first birthday.
And the youngest two, six-year-old Sophie and four-year-old Grace, covered head to toe in flour from "helping" at the bakery last week.
Eight faces. Eight souls we created together.
"Remember when I said you'd give me babies?" I murmur against her hair. "You've done such a good job, little girl."
Dusty laughs, the sound rich and unguarded. "I think eight qualifies as overachieving."
"Eight's not enough."
She twists to look at me, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. "Damian Kensington, I have carried your children for several years."
"And you've never looked more beautiful." I capture her chin, forcing her to meet my slate-gray gaze. "Every pregnancy makes you softer. Rounder. More mine."
Pink blooms across her cheeks. After all these years, I can still make her blush.
"You're insatiable."
"For you? Always." My thumb brushes her lower lip, and she nibbles it reflexively. Some habits never fade. "I want to keep you pregnant, baby. Want to watch your belly swell with number nine. Ten. However many your fertile little body will give me."
Her breath catches. Heat sparks between us, the same primal recognition that ignited when she first saw me through the shower door.
"You're serious."
"Dead serious." I slide my hand down to rest on her still-flat stomach. "I'm forty-nine, little girl. You're thirty-nine. We've got years left to fill this house with more babies."
Dusty's laugh starts low in her chest, building until her whole body shakes against mine. "You're completely ridiculous."
"And you love it."
"God help me, I do." She turns back to the album, fingers lingering on a photo of all eight kids piled on our bed last Christmas. "Alright, daddy. Let's see how many more we can make."
My wolf grins. Still mine. Still eager. Still perfect.
Thanks for reading!