25. Mary
Mary
Presley lived in Kensington, in a house that made me briefly reconsider every opinion I’d ever had about old money. It wasn’t vulgar, which would have been easier.
Vulgar wealth could be judged from a comfortable distance. Presley’s house was worse. It was beautiful in that effortless London way, all pale stone, black railings, tall windows, and a front door polished to the shine of a man who had never once worried about rent.
Sienna stepped out of the car first and scanned the street.
I waited because I’d learned, under protest, to let my bodyguard do her job.
“Clear,” Sienna said.
I climbed out.
“Does clear actually mean clear or security-person clear, where there may still be seven hidden dangers and you simply enjoy suspense?”
“Actually clear.”
“Disappointing. I had a joke ready.”
“You can save it.” Sienna bit down on a smile as she followed me up the steps.
The door opened before I reached the bell.
Presley stood there in jeans, a loose cream sweater, and fluffy socks, her hair piled on top of her head in a knot that looked accidental and somehow perfect. She was pretty in a warm, chaotic way.
“Mary,” she said, as if we were old friends. “Come in before Kensington notices.”
“Does Kensington object to omegas?”
“Not omegas, loitering, and anything that may reduce property values.”
I liked her so much.
“This is Sienna,” I said.
Presley looked at Sienna and smiled. “Bodyguard?”
“Yes,” Sienna said.
“Brilliant. Do you like tea?”
Sienna blinked.
Presley stepped aside. “I’m northern, love. Security is important, but nobody does it properly without tea.”
Sienna looked at me.
I shrugged. “She’s your problem now.”
Presley beamed. “Excellent. I love being a problem.”
Inside, the house smelled like polish, flowers, coffee, and children who had recently been eating something sticky. Somewhere upstairs, a small person shrieked with laughter. Another small person shouted in German. A woman answered in the same language, brisk and affectionate.
Presley glanced toward the ceiling. “Fritz’s mother. She’s staying for a week and has decided my children are underfed, under-layered, and culturally deprived because they can’t all make strudel from memory.”
“Can they?”
“One of them tried to put raisins in a toy train yesterday, so we have ground to cover.”
I laughed.
Presley led me through the house and out into the garden. It wasn’t enormous by country standards, but for London it felt like a miracle. Box hedges framed a path that led to a small cottage tucked at the back of the garden, painted soft peach with cream trim and a tiny porch.
I stopped. “That’s offensively charming.”
Presley looked at it and smiled. “My pack built it for me when we first met. I’ve just had it repainted.”
“Your pack built you a cottage?”
“Well, technically they paid people with better skills and more tools to build it, but the sentiment remains.”
“That’s very...” I searched for the right word.
“Overwhelming?”
“I was going to say, suspicious, like when you receive flowers for no reason at all.”
Presley laughed, bright and unembarrassed. “Oh, it was absolutely suspicious. Three rich alphas building an omega a tiny cottage in the garden? I was convinced I’d wandered into either a fairy tale, a business write-off, or an elaborate plan to hide me.”
“Which was it?”
“All, probably.”
The cottage door opened into one warm room with a small sofa, a writing desk, bookshelves, a kettle, blankets, and a window seat overlooking the garden. It wasn’t a child’s playhouse. It wasn’t decorative.
It was a place made for a woman to belong to herself.
My throat tightened before I could stop it.
Presley noticed, because of course she did.
“They only come in here if I invite them,” she said.
“Really?”
“Really. It was the first thing Fritz said. They wanted me everywhere in the big house, but they knew I needed somewhere the world stopped asking. Somewhere for me to feel safe and mine.”
I touched the back of the sofa. The fabric was soft beneath my fingers. “That’s...” I swallowed. “That’s lovely.”
“It is.” Presley set a tray down on the low table. “Also useful when children, three alphas, Fritz’s mother, Etienne’s grandmother, and a cat with opinions all exist in the same house.”
“Sounds hectic.”
“It is.” She dropped onto the sofa and patted the seat beside her.
I sat carefully. “Do you like it? Motherhood.”
“Yes.” Presley’s whole face changed. “I love it. I want more children.” The humor was still there, but it had gone soft at the edges.
“Not every minute, because I’m not a masochist. Anyone who loves every minute of motherhood is either lying, medicated, or has staff doing the worst bits.
But I love them. I love the noise, the questions, and the way they become people right in front of you like magic but with jam on its face. ”
My hand moved to my stomach.
Presley’s eyes followed it. “You’ll love it too.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I am,” Presley said. “We’re born for it.”
“I don’t know if I’m the maternal sort.”
“No one is the maternal sort before someone hands them a person who can’t hold up its own head and expects them to know what to do, but then it’s like magic.”
I stared at her.
She shrugged. “It’s true.”
“Maeve is a good mother.”
Presley laughed, loudly. “Maeve is a terrifyingly good mother for someone who is terrifying.”
She continued. “She’s wonderful with Mac and Mila because she loves like a siege weapon.
Once she’s decided you’re hers, God help the person who disagrees.
But she didn’t float into motherhood on a cloud of serenity.
She rang me once because Mac had sneezed twice, said something about needing the hospital, and she wanted to know if children could be dramatic genetically.
Your name may have risen during that conversation. ”
“Me.” I plonked my hand over my heart. “Maybe I’m a little dramatic. But can they? Be dramatic genetically?”
She just looked at me.
I laughed and took the tea she handed me. “I dread to think what my sister told you about me.”
The mug was yellow and said World’s Okayest Adult.
I looked at it.
Presley grinned. “Fritz bought me that after I cried because I’d put baby wipes in the fridge and milk in the cupboard.”
“I love him for that.”
“Everyone does. It’s irritating.”
The door opened behind us and a huge ginger cat wandered in, tail high, face sour.
Presley sighed. “Mr. Cheddar, we discussed manners.”
Mr. Cheddar ignored her and inspected my shoes.
“Is he judging me?”
“Yes. But he judges everyone. Try not to take it as a personal attack.”
The cat sniffed, sneezed, and stalked under the desk, where a velvet cushion had been placed in a patch of weak winter sun.
“I’ve been assessed and dismissed.”
“High praise.”
“Maeve mentioned him. He’s your rescue, isn’t he?”
“I suppose he is.”
Under the desk, Mr. Cheddar lowered himself onto the cushion with the slow dignity of a retired emperor.
“He looks well.”
“He’s thriving. Too lazy to bring mice now, thank God. He used to leave them on the step like little declarations of war.”
“Or love. But still charming.”
“You’ve never had a cat.” Presley rolled her eyes. “Dead mice are not a sign of love. Luckily, now he brings one toy mouse to the cottage door every morning and then lies beside it until someone praises him for his contribution to the household.”
Mr. Cheddar opened one eye.
Presley looked down at him. “Yes, you’re very brave.”
He shut his eye again.
“He has escalated in my affections,” Presley said. “Turns out a cat who stops hunting and starts demanding applause is exactly my sort of man.”
For a while, we ate tiny sandwiches and something lemony that Fritz’s mother had brought but declared too British but had eaten two of. Presley asked about the babies, about nausea, about whether Hudson and Lincoln were hovering enough or in need of instruction.
“They hover professionally,” I said.
“Good. Amateur hovering is very stressful. If they’re not doing it right.” She raised her hand and swiped across her neck.
“Kill them?”
“No, they’re not good alphas. Do they feed you?”
“Lincoln brought me breakfast in bed this morning, which was very nice and unexpected. He buys me a certain cake I like without asking and—.”
“Men who feed you quietly are dangerous.”
“Hudson gave me a folder of medical contact details sorted by specialty.”
Presley paused with a sandwich halfway to her mouth. “That’s both erotic and upsetting.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know how to categorize it.”
“Otherwise known as stationery foreplay. Men in suits are good at that.”
I nearly choked on my tea.
Presley looked delighted. “Knew she was in there.”
“Who?”
“Maeve’s sister.”
“Poor woman.”
“Lucky woman,” Presley corrected. Then her smile turned wicked. “Speaking of Maeve, has she told you about the turkey baster?”
I lowered my mug. “I beg your pardon.”
“Oh, she hasn’t.”
“No.”
“Excellent. I’d prefer to tell you here than over dinner.” Presley settled deeper into the sofa, as if preparing to ruin my sister’s dignity with the respect it deserved. “When I first met my pack, Maeve gave me a turkey baster.”
“Why?”
“Apparently she thought they were gay and just needed a baby, and I needed to get in first and break the ice.”
I stared at her. “I’m confused.”
“They needed a surrogate.”
“And you thought using a turkey baster was the way to go.”
“Maeve did.”
“Obviously,” I said.
Presley arched an eyebrow. “And they were never going to use a turkey baster.”
I put the mug down because my hands were no longer reliable.
“I can’t believe she’s been walking around with this information unpunished.”
“She was under a lot of stress.”
“Presley, she armed you with kitchen equipment.”
“It was new.”
“That doesn’t help.”
Presley laughed so hard she had to wipe under one eye.
I laughed too, properly, until my stomach pulled and I had to press a hand there.
“Careful,” Presley said, still smiling.
“I’m fine.”
“I know. I’m contractually obliged by motherhood to say careful when pregnant women laugh, bend, stand, sit, or look at stairs.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“You get used to it.”