Page 125 of Bad Girl

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.