Even the hypothermia.
Well. Maybe I'd skip the hypothermia.
But everything else? Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
Epilogue - Rhett
Two Years Later
The baby is crying again.
I'm out of bed before I'm fully awake, my feet hitting the cold floor as I move toward the cradle we built together last spring. Autumn stirs behind me but doesn't wake. She was up three times last night, and I told her I'd take the early morning shift.
"Shh, little one," I murmur, scooping up our daughter. "Papa's here."
She's so tiny in my hands. Six months old and still small enough that I'm terrified I'll break her every time I pick her up. But she settles immediately against my bare chest, her crying reducing to sniffles, then silence.
Maya. We named her Maya, after the month she was born. May, when the mountain comes alive with wildflowers and new growth and hope.
When our impossible miracle came into the world.
I walk her over to the window, bouncing gently the way Autumn taught me. The sun is just starting to rise, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Maya makes a small sound. Not quite a cry, more like a question.
"I know," I tell her softly. "It's early. But you're hungry, aren't you? Always hungry."
As if on cue, Autumn appears beside me, sleep-rumpled and beautiful, reaching for Maya. "I'll feed her. Go back to bed."
"I'm awake now." I hand over our daughter, watching as Autumn settles into the rocking chair by the fireplace and begins to nurse.
I should be used to this sight by now. Six months of watching my mate feed our child, and it still does something to me. Makes the bear rumble with satisfaction, with pride, with the bone-deep certainty that this is what we're meant for.
Protecting them. Providing for them. Loving them.
I build up the fire while Autumn feeds Maya, adding logs until the cabin is warm. It's October now, and the mornings are getting colder. Soon it'll be winter, Maya's first winter, and I've already started preparing extra firewood, stored food, warmer clothes for the baby.
"You're hovering," Autumn says without looking up from Maya.
"I'm not hovering. I'm tending the fire."
"You're hovering. You always hover when you're worried about something."
Damn. She knows me too well. I sit down on the floor beside the rocking chair, leaning my head against her knee. She threads her free hand through my hair, and I close my eyes.
"What are you worried about?" she asks gently.
"Everything. Nothing. The usual."
"Rhett."
I sigh. "Dr. Amanda called yesterday. When you were in town with your mother."
Dr. Amanda is the shifter doctor we found through the Blackwater Falls pack, the one who's been monitoring Maya since birth. Who confirmed what we already suspected: our daughter is half-shifter, half-human. Something that shouldn't exist, something so rare that even Dr. Amanda has only read about it in old texts.
"What did she say?" Autumn's hand stills in my hair.
"She wants to run more tests. Says Maya's development is unusual even for a hybrid. She's concerned about when the shifting might start, how we'll manage it, whether—" I stop, the fear catching in my throat.
