Conrí
Her breathing had evened out but the pups remained active. A few short weeks and they would be here.
I leaned carefully over her to reach the bowl on the other side.
Two red grapes left.
Her fingers tightened around it. Her brow furrowed.
I attempted to ease it free.
She grunted.
How was she so strong? Pregnancy powers.
I gave up. If she wanted to sleep with her bowl, she could sleep with her bowl.
I slipped a little lower and pressed my face against the side of her belly, one arm curved around her. The pups shifted beneath my cheek—small movements, certain, entirely themselves already.
Our future, Kael murmured, inhaling the layered scent of mate and pups. So close.
And that was exactly what terrified me. What had turned me into a raging maniac about cheese and remote working policies and pillow arrangements. The thought of losing any of them woke me in a cold sweat at three in the morning.
I kept tabs on Finley. He’d been sectioned under the Mental Health Act—six months, which was insufficient by any measure. Cuán had paid him a visit. Conall had done the rest. Sectioned again.
I asked no questions. I had no further comments on the matter.
Conall was a good wolf.
The warmth and scent of our family lulled me into closing my eyes.
I’d rest my eyes just for a moment.
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“Does this mean if I knock you off I inherit everything?” she asked innocently, dipping an apple slice into the almond butter.
The cravings had evolved considerably since the grapefruits. Four a day at the peak—I’d lost count of the phases. At least we’d moved on from the cheese standoffs.
The solicitor’s office was quiet and neutral in the way that solicitors’ offices always were—pale walls, the faint smell of paper and carpet, a clock doing its job on the wall. The kind of room designed to make significant decisions feel manageable.
“Yes,” Cuán said, signing the witness section with a flourish. “And if you ever need any help with the knocking off—”
“That’s enough from both of you,” I said. “You’re making Mr Barton uncomfortable.”
My solicitor cleared his throat and shook his head in a way that convinced no one.
I helped Nika out of her chair while Cuán collected her tub of apple and almond butter. Gods forbid we leave the snack behind.
Nika hissed and clutched her belly.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, staring at her.
Fuck. I should have had Barton bring the paperwork to the penthouse. I’d known this was cutting it close. I’d known and I’d let her talk me into coming anyway because she’d wanted to feel normal for one afternoon and I hadn’t been able to say no to her.
“She’s been in labour for a while,” Cuán said, snapping the lid onto the snack pot with complete composure.
“Shall I call an ambulance?” Mr Barton asked, half-rising from his chair.
The sound reached us before anyone moved—a slow, quiet drip. We all looked down at the same moment. A small puddle was pooling around Nika’s foot. Even Barton leaned over his desk to look.
The wood was too dark to see the colour.
I sniffed.
Sweet. Clean.
No infection.
“No ambulance,” Cuán said. “We’ll take the car. We’re not far.”
I glared at him.
“What?” he said. “It’s almost like you want me to fail at being an uncle-dad.”
I turned to Nika.
“You should have told me.”
“Ugh. Deal with it later. I’m dripping.”
Nothing new there.
I was wise enough not to say so.
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“I’m not sitting on that,” she said, frowning at the wheelchair I’d stolen for her. “I need to walk. Gravity has laws. You stuck two of them inside me and sitting on that won’t help them come out.”
People stared.
My cheeks grew warm.
Thank the Gods Cuán was parking the car.
“Fine. Fine,” I muttered, taking her arm and walking her down the corridor. “Everything is going to be okay.”
I breathed.
In and out.
In and out.
Everything was going to be okay.
In and out.
In and out.
Which one of you is in labour, Kael drawled.
I was surrounded by complete and utter arseholes.
That was only the beginning.
Nika and Bad Girl used me as both solace and punching bag—sometimes within the same sixty seconds. The whiplash was real. But all of us remained focused on what mattered. Getting them both here safely.
Four hours later, Conor arrived.
Six minutes after that, Eilish.
Conor—lover of hounds. Eilish—from the kind meadow. Both of them with a healthy dark head of hair. Both of them announcing themselves to the world with lusty, indignant cries that filled the room completely.
But the moment I would carry longest was quieter than that.
The way they settled when their mother held them. How the crying stopped—not gradually, but all at once, as though something had been resolved. How Nika’s eyes found mine across the room, those silver eyes bright with tears she hadn’t let fall yet. How our children already knew her scent.
I helped her unfasten her top, took Conor until Eilish was settled at her breast, then placed him in her other arm.
She’d heal. I’d be there for every part of it.
I traced the soft curve of Conor’s cheek. Then Eilish’s.
I’d never let them out of my sight. Technology had come a long way. It was entirely feasible.
“Whatever you’re thinking—don’t,” Nika whispered.
“Of course, my love,” I murmured, and kissed her cheek.
I settled in beside them and memorised everything. Every feature. Every sound. The particular way Eilish had already claimed her position and the way Conor was already looking around as if assessing the room.
One son. One daughter. Six minutes apart.
Ours.
A knock at the door.
I waited. It came.
“Knock knock.”
Nika giggled.
I rolled my eyes at the ceiling.
Both of our parents were on the way, but Cuán’s enthusiasm didn't let up.
We needed to find his mate.
The End.