EPILOGUE TWO
Hudson
Snowflakes drift past the wide living room windows, soft and glittery like someone shook a giant snow globe around the house. The Christmas tree, which the alphas insisted betastefullymoderate, is twelve feet tall, flocked, and dripping with ornaments that were definitely not part of any moderate design plan.
There are baby-safe felt ornaments at the bottom. Glass ones near the top. And three custom pieces – Rowan, Luca, and Ivy written in looping script – right at eye level for every alpha in the house.
Alex hung them himself and then cried. Twice.
I still tease him about it.
The fireplace crackles. Lights twinkle. Cinnamon and vanilla float through the air. And the entire living room floor is covered in gifts because apparently, three four-month-old infants need enough presents to supply a small city.
I sit cross-legged on the plush rug with Ivy in my lap. She’s wearing a red dress with tiny embroidered snowflakes and fuzzy white socks that she keeps kicking off even though she’s barelydiscovered her feet. She yawns dramatically, then squeals at the lights like she’s rediscovered them for the fifth time in ten minutes.
Desmond is on the couch with Rowan propped upright against his chest. Rowan is focused – deeply, seriously focused – on the ribbon dangling from Desmond’s wrist like it contains the secrets of the universe.
“Should we let them open presents?” Desmond asks.
“They’re four months old,” I point out. “They can’t open anything.”
“We can open them for them,” he replies, already picking up a gift bag the size of a suitcase.
“Des,” I laugh, “what is in that?”
He opens it proudly. “Baby noise-canceling headphones. For when they come to the office.”
I blink. “Why would they come to the office?”
Before he can respond, Mason strides in from the hallway carrying Luca in one arm and a stack of wrapped gifts in the other. Luca has a tiny Santa hat that keeps sliding over one eye. Mason adjusts it every five steps. He refuses to admit defeat.
“My sons will absolutely visit the office,” Mason says as though this is an objective truth of the universe. “They’re the heirs to Anders Law. Might as well start early.”
“They’re not heirs,” I say, trying not to laugh. “And they’re also babies.”
“They can observe deposition recordings,” he insists. “For early cognitive development.”
Alex throws a handful of tinsel at him.
“Stop trying to make our babies prodigies,” Alex says, sitting down beside me with a plate of cookies. “They can barely hold their heads up.”
“They held them up yesterday,” Mason says defensively.
“For two seconds,” I remind him.
He grunts like those two seconds were Olympic-level triumphs.
Ivy squeals again and kicks her sock across the floor. Alex retrieves it with a sigh that’s far more dramatic than necessary.
“She’s a menace,” he says, kissing her cheek anyway.
“She’s perfect,” I reply, and all three alphas go soft at the same time.
That look – like I’ve handed them the stars every time I say something about their children – still makes my chest ache in the best way.
“Okay,” Alex says suddenly. “Time for stockings.”
“Stockings?” I laugh. “They can’t –”
