Epilogue
Hudson
The room is dim and warm, lit only by a cluster of soft amber lamps that make everything feel gentle and blurred around the edges. It’s the calmest I’ve felt in months, even though my entire body is trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion.
After the C-section, my body feels weird as the drugs slowly wear off.
I never imagined giving birth in the pack house would feel safer than any hospital. But the doctor insisted on a home birth team the moment my pregnancy reached the “unstable if we move him unnecessarily” stage.
And my alphas…well, they built an entire medical wing on the first floor in under three weeks.
Only Pack Anders would respond to medical advice by hiring a contractor at midnight.
I exhale shakily, sinking back against the angled pillows behind me. My body feels weightless and heavy all at once. Emptied. Filled.
Completely rewired.
Alex is beside me, cradling our daughter against his bare chest. She’s so tiny she looks like she could curl into his palm, her hair the faintest hint of auburn brown. Her little cries taper off the second he purrs.
Desmond is on my other side, one of the boys snuggled into the crook of his arm, wrapped in a pale blue blanket. His lashes are wet. I don’t think he realizes he’s crying again.
And Mason…
Mason is sitting at the foot of the bed, holding the second boy against his chest, staring at him like someone handed him the moon.
“Are you okay?” Alex whispers, brushing the back of his fingers along my cheek.
I nod, though my throat is too tight for words. The bond is open between all four of us, wider than it has ever been. Their emotions swirl around me – awe, protectiveness, disbelief, and love so intense it’s almost overwhelming.
Desmond leans in and presses a kiss to my temple. “They’re perfect,” he whispers.
“They are,” I breathe, my voice soft and hoarse. “All three.”
The doctor and nurses have stepped into the adjoining room to give us a moment alone. It’s quiet except for the babies’ tiny breaths and the soft, shaky exhalations of the alphas who have waited twelve long years for this day.
I reach out and gently stroke the downy hair on the little girl’s head. “She looks like you, Alex.”
“Poor thing,” he murmurs with a grin. “She deserved your beauty.”
“Shut up,” I whisper, laughing under my breath, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes.
Mason stands slowly and walks toward me. His steps are cautious, reverent. He lowers himself onto the bed, our son nestled safely in his arms.
“He looks like you,” Mason says. “Same mouth. Same nose.”
I study the tiny newborn face. He’s right. Even now, barely an hour old, there’s something familiar in him. A softness through the cheeks. A sharpness in the brow.
“Two boys,” Desmond says, his voice thick with emotion. “One girl. Hudson…you did it.”
I laugh weakly. “I didn’t exactly do it alone.”
“No.” Mason leans in and kisses my forehead. “But you carried them when it was hard. You protected them. You gave them life. You completed our life, our family.”
The words loosen something inside me, something knotted with months of fear and hormones.
Alex shifts our daughter slightly and leans close enough that his shoulder touches mine. “What should we name them?”
We’ve spent weeks arguing over names – or rather, Mason and Alex argued while Desmond kept making lists. I never wanted to admit it out loud, but I kept stalling because naming your children makes everything feel so terrifyingly real.
But now, looking at their faces, it feels easy.
I touch Mason’s son first. “This one…Rowan.”
Mason’s breath catches. “Rowan Anders.” He says it like he’s memorizing every syllable.
I turn to Desmond’s arms next. “And this one…Luca.”
Desmond closes his eyes for a long moment. “Luca Anders,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to his son’s forehead.
“And she…” My voice breaks. “She’s Ivy.”
Alex smiles with such unrestrained joy that it’s nearly my undoing. I’m struggling to hold in my emotions and these three – these six? – are effectively pulling as many tears from me as possible.
“Ivy Anders.” Alex kisses the top of her tiny head. “Our little vine.”
Mason’s laugh is soft. “Better than your first suggestion.”
Alex scowls playfully. “Magnolia was a perfectly respectable name.”
“For a ninety-year-old Southern belle,” Mason deadpans.
I laugh through the tears. I’m exhausted, wrung out, but somehow overflowing with happiness.
All three alphas ease closer until their bodies form a warm, protective circle around me.
Rowan sleeps soundly against Mason’s chest. Luca stirs and makes a tiny squeaking sound that sends Desmond into an emotional meltdown.
And Ivy stretches her miniature fingers against Alex’s collarbone, already claiming him.
My heart expands painfully.
I inhale their scents – smoke, peppermint and whipped cream, and chocolate hazelnut – and feel the bond adjust itself, reshaping, expanding, settling over the four of us like a blanket woven from love and devotion.
“I love you,” I say before I can think to pull it back.
Alex leans closer and nuzzles his cheek to mine.
Ivy fusses at the movement, soft whimpers breaking the quiet.
“Here,” Mason says, shifting Rowan carefully into my arms.
The moment that tiny, warm weight settles against my chest, everything inside me shifts.
Ivy peeks her eyes open at the sound. Luca hiccups. And it hits me – all of it – the enormity, the miracle, the life I never thought I’d want.
I look up at my alphas.
My mates.
My home.
“We’re a pack,” I whisper.
Alex strokes my hair. “We always were. We just needed you to make us complete.”
The five of us stay curled together on the pack bed as the sun rises, painting the room gold. The babies sleep against our chests. My alphas hold me like I’m something precious.
And for the first time in my life, I feel whole.
Loved.
Claimed.
Forever.