Hudson
The room is dim and warm, lit only by a cluster of soft amber lamps that make everything feel gentle and blurred around the edges. It’s the calmest I’ve felt in months, even though my entire body is trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion.
After the C-section, my body feels weird as the drugs slowly wear off.
I never imagined giving birth in the pack house would feel safer than any hospital. But the doctor insisted on a home birth team the moment my pregnancy reached the “unstable if we move him unnecessarily” stage.
And my alphas…well, they built an entire medical wing on the first floor in under three weeks.
Only Pack Anders would respond to medical advice by hiring a contractor at midnight.
I exhale shakily, sinking back against the angled pillows behind me. My body feels weightless and heavy all at once. Emptied. Filled.
Completely rewired.
Alex is beside me, cradling our daughter against his bare chest. She’s so tiny she looks like she could curl into his palm, her hair the faintest hint of auburn brown. Her little cries taper off the second he purrs.
Desmond is on my other side, one of the boys snuggled into the crook of his arm, wrapped in a pale blue blanket. His lashes are wet. I don’t think he realizes he’s crying again.
And Mason…
Mason is sitting at the foot of the bed, holding the second boy against his chest, staring at him like someone handed him the moon.
“Are you okay?” Alex whispers, brushing the back of his fingers along my cheek.
I nod, though my throat is too tight for words. The bond is open between all four of us, wider than it has ever been. Their emotions swirl around me – awe, protectiveness, disbelief, and love so intense it’s almost overwhelming.
Desmond leans in and presses a kiss to my temple. “They’re perfect,” he whispers.
“They are,” I breathe, my voice soft and hoarse. “All three.”
The doctor and nurses have stepped into the adjoining room to give us a moment alone. It’s quiet except for the babies’ tiny breaths and the soft, shaky exhalations of the alphas who have waited twelve long years for this day.
I reach out and gently stroke the downy hair on the little girl’s head. “She looks like you, Alex.”
“Poor thing,” he murmurs with a grin. “She deserved your beauty.”
“Shut up,” I whisper, laughing under my breath, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes.
Mason stands slowly and walks toward me. His steps are cautious, reverent. He lowers himself onto the bed, our son nestled safely in his arms.
“He looks like you,” Mason says. “Same mouth. Same nose.”
I study the tiny newborn face. He’s right. Even now, barely an hour old, there’s something familiar in him. A softness through the cheeks. A sharpness in the brow.
“Two boys,” Desmond says, his voice thick with emotion. “One girl. Hudson…you did it.”
I laugh weakly. “I didn’t exactly do it alone.”
“No.” Mason leans in and kisses my forehead. “But you carried them when it was hard. You protected them. You gave them life. You completed our life, our family.”
The words loosen something inside me, something knotted with months of fear and hormones.
Alex shifts our daughter slightly and leans close enough that his shoulder touches mine. “What should we name them?”
We’ve spent weeks arguing over names – or rather, Mason and Alex argued while Desmond kept making lists. I never wanted to admit it out loud, but I kept stalling because naming your children makes everything feel so terrifyingly real.
But now, looking at their faces, it feels easy.
