Page 177 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

“No,” I said, because she needed more than one voice. “Listen. We love you. I love you.”

Her hand gripped my shirt.

Hudson’s mouth brushed her temple. “I love you.”

Mary pulled back enough to look at both of us. Her eyes were wet, her cheeks flushed, her mouth unsteady. “You really love me.”

“We really do,” Hudson said.

I touched her face. “More than I know what to do with.”

Her laugh came out broken. “I really love you too.”

The room shifted, and I felt it everywhere. It wasn’t a bond snapping into place. We hadn’t claimed her but something settled.

Hudson closed his eyes as I kissed her, and Mila chose that moment to toddle back across the rug. She wrapped both arms around Mary’s thigh and said, “Ahh.”

Mary looked down and burst into tears properly. “Oh, no. Don’t be nice. That’s unfair.”

Mila squeezed harder.

Maeve’s eyes shone.

Mary rested one hand gently over Mila’s head and the other over her own stomach. “I’m so looking forward to having these babies,” she whispered.

Hudson made a sound under his breath.

I put my hand over hers on her belly.

Maeve smiled, soft and fierce at once. “You’re going to be the best mama.”

Mary looked at her sister. “Don’t say things like that when I’m already leaking.”

“I will say what I like in my own sitting room.”

“Tyrant.”

“Accepted.”

Mac appeared in the doorway, looking suddenly very grown up for a boy with biscuit crumbs on his sleeve.

He assessed the hugging, the crying, and the general emotional situation. “Mila,” he said, “let’s find Fergus, because he sneaked away with Mama’s new Dior slipper and he’s been too quiet.”

Maeve turned her head slowly. “He did what?”

Mac took Mila’s hand.

Mila said, “Dior… Dior,” with the confidence of an accomplice.

At that exact moment, Fergus walked into the room. He didn’t trot. He walked slowly, with the dignity of a small dog who had recently made several ambitious romantic choices.

Behind him came Duchess, the largest Doberman on the estate, black, gleaming, and tall enough that Fergus could have walked beneath her without ducking. She followed him with deep interest, her elegant head lowered, her cropped ears alert, her whole body moving with the lethal grace of a creature trained to stop intruders and yet apparently fascinated by a dog the size of a shoe.

Fergus had no slipper, which made it worse.

Maeve stood. “Fergus.”

Fergus looked at her, then deliberately sat beside Duchess’s front paws.