Page 175 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

Gregor had carried wood in from somewhere, though the fire was already full. Which made me think it was to check on Maeve as she was in a room with alphas.

Ivan had leaned in once, looked at us, and said, “Nobody has died. Good start.”

I was sure the only two people in the house who could die were Hudson and me.

Mac came in after that. He interrogated us with enough strange questions I felt I’d been waterboarded. Then he left and we waited.

Now Mary stood at the bottom of the stairs. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders. Her face was pale. Her eyes looked too large, too blue, and too tired. Mila rested against her side with one small hand tangled in the front of Mary’s sweater, perfectly content to be carried by a woman who had cried over paint and still come downstairs.

Mary looked first at Hudson, then at me, and my chest hurt. “Hello,” she said.

Hudson’s voice came rough. “Hello.”

I didn’t trust mine yet.

Mila looked between us and patted Mary’s chest. “Ba.”

Mary glanced down at her. “Yes, well argued.”

Maeve fought a smile, but she didn’t rescue us.

“Mac said you were sad.” Mary came into the room, not far, only to the edge of the rug, as if distance could be measured in wool and courage.

“Mac was accurate,” I said.

Her eyes flicked to mine, and a tiny thread caught between us.

Hudson stepped forward, then stopped before the movement could become pressure. “Thank you for letting us in.”

“I said the gates could open.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t say I was ready.”

“No,” Hudson said. “You didn’t.”

Mila wriggled. Mary set her down, and the child immediately waddled to Maeve, who lifted her without looking away from us.

“Damien,” Mary said.

A muscle moved in Hudson’s jaw. “He’s still in London.”

“He admitted he was jealous,” I said.

Mary blinked. “Of me?”

“Of you. Of the babies. Of us having something new when he already felt left behind.”

Her face twisted. “I don’t want him to hate you.” The words came out small. Too small for a woman who had stood up to Callum McCarthy through an armored car’s loudspeaker.

I took one step and stopped. “Love.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t. I know he was awful. I know he hurt me. And I know he said things he shouldn’t have said, but I don’t want him to lose you because of me.”

“He won’t lose us because of you,” Hudson said.

“But if he makes you choose?”