Epilogue The Perfect Legacy Of Hope
~WILLA~
T he kitchen smells like contentment—coffee brewing strong enough to wake the dead, bacon crackling in Cole's cast iron skillet, and the faint sweetness of the cinnamon rolls Austin insisted on making from scratch.
I lean against the counter, hands wrapped around my favorite mug, watching my pack move through their morning dance with the easy rhythm of a life we've finally learned to trust.
"More?" River appears at my elbow with the coffee pot, already reaching to top off my cup before I can answer. He knows my rhythms now—the way I need that second cup before I'm fully human, how I take it with just a splash of cream when I'm happy, black when I'm stressed.
Today definitely calls for cream.
My stomach flutters with more than just the secret I'm carrying.
The pregnancy test hidden in our bathroom trash confirmed what my body's been whispering for weeks—the tenderness, the heightened senses, the way certain smells suddenly make me queasy.
But standing here in our sunlit kitchen, surrounded by the men who've become my everything, the words stick in my throat like honey.
Luna bangs her spoon against her high chair tray, sending pureed peaches flying. "Mama! More!" Her vocabulary has exploded lately, though her table manners remain decidedly baby-like. Maverick swoops in with a damp cloth, cleaning her face while she giggles and tries to eat the washcloth.
"Little monster," he says fondly, tweaking her nose. "What are we going to do with you?"
"Love her unconditionally while teaching appropriate boundaries," Austin supplies from where he's pulling his cinnamon rolls from the oven. The smell hits me like a wall—usually my favorite, but today my stomach does a slow roll that has me setting down my mug.
Cole notices immediately, because Cole notices everything. "You okay, sweetheart? You look a little pale."
And there's my opening, served up on a silver platter by the universe and Cole's perpetual protectiveness. I take a breath, let it out slowly, and square my shoulders. "I'm pregnant."
The kitchen freezes like I've hit pause on reality. Cole's spatula hovers mid-flip over the bacon. River's coffee pot tilts dangerously. Austin stands holding his tray of cinnamon rolls like he's forgotten what hands are for. Even Maverick stops mid-wipe of Luna's face.
Then Luna breaks the spell with delighted squealing, clapping her peach-covered hands together. "Babies! Babies!" She bounces in her chair, somehow understanding even at barely-talking age that this is celebration-worthy news.
"You're—" Cole starts, then stops, his eyes dropping to my still-flat stomach like he can see through cloth and skin to confirm.
"About six weeks along," I confirm, watching their faces cycle through shock, joy, and then—inevitably—turn toward Cole with suspicious synchronization.
"It can't be me," Cole protests immediately, defensive before anyone's even accused him. "We've been careful. We've all been careful."
"Your father had twins," Maverick points out with investigative precision. "And your uncle. And your cousin in Wyoming."
"That doesn't mean?—"
"Statistically speaking," River adds, warming to the topic with his veterinarian's understanding of genetics, "the tendency for twins does run stronger in certain bloodlines."
"We don't even know it's twins!" Cole's voice climbs an octave, which would be funnier if I wasn't starting to feel like a forgotten side character in my own pregnancy announcement.
Austin sets down the cinnamon rolls with careful precision. "The ultrasound will tell us. But regardless of whether it's one or two, or whose genetics are involved—" He pauses, looking at the others meaningfully. "Aren't we forgetting something?"
The bickering stops as they turn back to me, and I watch realization dawn across four faces simultaneously. The transformation is immediate and would be comical if it wasn't so sweet—four powerful alphas suddenly looking like kids who forgot to do their homework.
"Shit," Maverick breathes. "Willa, sweetheart?—"
"Congratulations!" River bursts out, setting down the coffee pot with a clatter.
"We're having a baby," Cole says, wonder replacing defensiveness in his voice.
Austin crosses the kitchen in three strides, lifting me off my feet in a spin that has me laughing despite my rolling stomach.
"Another baby. Our baby." He sets me down gently, hands immediately going to my shoulders like I might break.
"How are you feeling? Any morning sickness?
Have you been taking prenatal vitamins? We need to call Dr. Sylvie?—"
"Let her breathe," River cuts in, but he's already pulling out his phone. "Though we should discuss dietary adjustments. Increased folic acid, proper omega-3 ratios, limiting mercury exposure?—"
"The nursery," Cole interrupts, his mind clearly spinning in construction directions. "We'll need to expand. Or reconfigure. Luna could move to the room next to ours, and we could turn the current nursery into?—"
"Security upgrades," Maverick adds, because of course that's where his mind goes. "Additional cameras for the expanded nursery. Better baby monitors. Maybe those movement sensors for the cribs."
I put my hands on my hips, trying to look stern but probably failing given the smile tugging at my lips. "Are you four going to let me get a word in about my own pregnancy?"
They stop mid-planning, looking properly chastised. Luna takes the opportunity to fling more peaches, this time hitting Maverick square in the chest. "Babies!" she announces again, clearly the only one maintaining proper priorities.
"Come here," I say softly, and they converge on me like moths to flame. Cole's arms wrap around me from behind, his large hands settling protectively over my stomach. River and Austin flank me, while Maverick scoops up Luna and joins our huddle.
"Another baby," River murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine. "Or babies."
"Definitely babies," Cole mutters against my neck, resignation already creeping into his voice. "With my luck and genetics."
"Luna's going to be a big sister," Austin says, smiling at her as she pats my stomach with sticky hands, babbling "babies" over and over like she's casting a spell.
"Best big sister," Maverick agrees, kissing her peach-scented hair. "She'll teach them everything—how to escape their crib, how to wrap their daddies around tiny fingers, how to make a mess of biblical proportions."
Luna beams at him, then leans over to pat my stomach more enthusiastically. "Babies in!" she declares with toddler certainty.
"That's right, star girl," I tell her, covering her little hand with mine. "Babies in Mama's tummy. You'll have to help us take care of them."
"I help!" she agrees immediately, then adds, "Share toys?"
"We'll get them their own toys," Cole assures her, already calculating lumber needs for toy storage.
"After the prenatal appointment," Austin insists. "First trimester care is crucial, especially with potential multiples."
"And we're adjusting your diet starting today," River adds. "I'll research the best nutritional plans for twin pregnancies."
"We don't know it's twins!"
"The security system can wait until after the first ultrasound," Maverick concedes. "But I'm ordering those upgraded monitors today."
I lean back into Cole's solid warmth, surrounded by my pack's familiar chaos of protective planning. His hands spread wider across my stomach, like he's already shielding what's growing there. "You realize you're all going to drive me insane for the next eight months, right?"
"Seven months and two weeks, technically," Austin corrects, then grins sheepishly when I shoot him a look. "But who's counting?"
"All of you, apparently." But there's no heat in it. How can there be when I'm standing in our kitchen, safe and loved and carrying new life? When Luna's patting my stomach like it's her job, when my men are already redesigning our entire life around babies that are barely bigger than sesame seeds?
"We love you too," Cole murmurs against my ear, reading my thoughts as always. "All of you. However many that ends up being."
"Babies!" Luna shouts one more time, just in case anyone forgot the morning's headline news.
And surrounded by laughter and love and the controlled chaos of our pack, I let myself believe in this future we're building—one baby (or two) at a time.
My hand rests on the small swell of my belly as I watch my men transform our dining table into a command center of dreams and blueprints.
Twelve weeks along now, and the morning sickness has finally eased enough for me to think about something beyond crackers and ginger tea.
The late afternoon sun streams through the windows, illuminating their plans like holy documents—which maybe they are, in their own way.
"The main therapy building should go here," Cole says, his finger tracing lines across the largest blueprint.
"Far enough from the main house for privacy, but close enough that residents feel connected, not isolated.
" His construction foreman experience shows in every precise measurement, every carefully considered angle.
"I'm thinking craftsman style to match the existing structures.
Big windows for natural light—studies show it helps with healing. "
The table groans under the weight of possibility.
Architectural drawings compete for space with River's veterinary journals, Mavi's security catalogs, and Austin's medical supply lists.
Luna plays in her expanded playpen nearby, alternating between stacking blocks and demolishing them with enthusiastic glee—a fitting metaphor for what we're trying to build.