Page 191 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

“It’s Presley. It’s always a good time.”

When the next contraction hit, all humor vanished and Mary never got to quip back.

“Argh!!” Mary bore down with a sound that came from somewhere deep and ancient, her hands crushing ours, her body working with a force that humbled every alpha instinct I had ever mistaken for power.

“That’s it,” Dr. Sanders said. “Beautiful, Mary. Again.”

“This is not beautiful,” Mary gasped.

“Then ugly,” Presley called from the phone. “Push ugly.”

Mary laughed once, furious and breathless, then pushed.

Baby A arrived with a cry that split the world open, a boy, small and furious and perfect.

Hudson made a sound I would remember until the day I died.

The nurse placed him briefly on Mary’s chest, and she stared down at him as if her whole life had rearranged itself around the damp, wailing weight of him.

“Hello,” she whispered.

Our son cried harder.

“Yes,” Mary said, crying too. “I agree. Very rude out here.”

Baby B decided being outdone was unacceptable, and the second birth came faster.

“Fuck…Fuck…Fucking hell.” Mary swore in three accents, threatened to haunt Hudson if he ever said she was doing beautifully again, and then pushed our baby into the world beneath the storm-soft light of a London afternoon.

“A beautiful baby girl,” Dr. Sanders said.

One boy and one girl.

Mary heard the words and began laughing before the tears had stopped.

“I got one,” she said, dazed and sobbing. “I got one girl.”

“You got one of each,” I said, voice wrecked, placing our son back in her arms. And our daughter was placed beside her brother. She was smaller and quieter.

Hudson’s hand covered both babies with shaking care. Mine covered Mary’s hair, and the bond between us glowed so bright I could hardly think.

Mary looked up at us, exhausted beyond anything I had ever seen, claimed marks vivid on her neck, babies against her chest, rings on her hand.

“I’m going to have my hands full.”

Hudson kissed her forehead. “So will we.”

I bent and kissed her mouth.

Maeve was crying openly at the door, Presley was crying loudly through the phone, our son wailed again, and our daughter yawned.

Mary looked down at them, then back at us. “We need names,” she whispered.

“We do,” Hudson said.

“Later,” I said.

Mary smiled, eyes already drifting closed as the babies settled against her. “Later,” she agreed. “Go and call Damien, and tell him he has a brother and sister.”