Page 117 of Bewitching the Wolf

“I am yours,” I cry out as we climb the peak of pleasure together and take flight.

And in this timeless, ecstatic moment, it feels like our souls have merged and are rising to meet the moon.

EPILOGUE

Six months later

JAX

“Do you need any help with that, my love?” I call To Tippy. She’s reaching up on tippy-toes to put a jar of dried herbs on a shelf.

“Hmm, maybe you could fetch the ladder.”

“As long as you don’t climb up it,” I say protectively. “Leave the high shelves to me. Promise?”

“I promise.”

I go over and kiss her, then place my hand on her burgeoning belly.

“How are they all going today?”

“Moving around like crazy. I think I’ve got a basketball team in here.” She puts her hand over mine and moves it around her tight, round belly. “Feel that?”

Sure enough, I feel the ripples as our younglings kick in unison.

We’ve recently learned that we’re expecting quadruplets. Not so uncommon for vixen shifters, but these cubs have wolf in them, and are likely to be big and strong.

And my little wixen is small.

But she’s strong and healthy, and Felicia says there will be no problem with her birthing our cubs.

We are working hard to get the new apothecary up and running before her confinement.

There is still a fuckload to do.

Tippy’s Healing Place as she’s named it, sits on the edge of Vixenville. We have plans eventually to move it up to Earth, but we wanted to start off in familiar territory.

And where better than somewhere close to her family? Who, incidentally, have welcomed me with open arms.

I’ve been allowed to help out around Vixenville, the first male who’s been openly welcomed to do jobs that my superior strength and agility make easy. Mending the rooves and repairing their jeeps and scooters, and the like.

I also do my share of cooking and cleaning.

I haven’t got tickets on myself because of my High Priest title.

It is, after all, just a title.

As I go outside to fetch the ladder now, I hear a rasping cough. That’s a smoker’s cough, I think to myself.

“Excuse me,” queries a voice. “I’m looking for a Tippy Honeywell. I was told I might find her here?”

I turn to see a slightly built middle-aged male, with red hair and a wily build.

He’s dressed in braces and boots, and carrying a small rucksack on his back. He looks like a traveler, one of the many species who move between levels, working in the mines or manufacturing.

“You have been told right.”

“Are you her husband?”