My world tilted on its axis. Again.
“Can we show you our paws?” Thea asked excitedly, abandoning her fort to join us. “We’ve been practicing!”
What followed broke my brain a little bit. Both my children held up their hands and, smoothly and easily, transformed them into wolf paws. Gray fur sprouted across their skin, their fingers shortened and thickened, claws extended. Not painful or scary or monstrous. Just... natural.
“We practiced lots,” Thea said proudly, flexing her claws with the same delight she’d show off a new drawing. “At night when you were sleeping. We didn’t want to scare you.”
The confession hit me in the chest. My babies had been hiding parts of themselves to protect ME. They’d been sneaking practice sessions like other kids snuck cookies, all because they didn’t want to frighten their mother.
“Change back,” I whispered, and they did instantly, giggling at my stunned expression.
“Are you mad?” Rowan asked, a note of worry creeping into his voice.
“No, baby. Not mad. Just... surprised.”
Noah chose that moment to enter with lunch, taking in the scene with raised eyebrows. “Ah. They showed you the partial shift.”
“Partial shift,” I repeated numbly. “That’s what it’s called when my four-year-olds turn their hands into paws?”
“That level of control at their age is remarkable,” Noah said, setting down sandwiches. “Most wolves can’t even partial shift until puberty. Your bloodline,” he nodded to Knox, who’d moved closer during the revelation, “it’s stronger than most. Alpha genetics.”
“So they’re... advanced?” I asked weakly, watching Thea examine her perfectly normal hand like she was checking her manicure.
“Exceptionally. Which means they need training even more. Untrained power is dangerous.”
“We’re not dangerous!” Thea protested. “We’re careful! We only practiced when Mama was sleeping and we never broke anything. Well, except that one lamp but that was an accident and we cleaned it up.”
“You broke a lamp?” I stared at her. “When?”
“Last month. But we fixed it with glue!”
My life was insane. My four-year-olds had been having secret werewolf training sessions in our apartment while I slept, apparently breaking furniture and developing supernatural abilities like other kids developed preferences for dinosaurs or princesses.
“Can we practice more?” Thea asked innocently, looking between me and Knox with hopeful eyes. “It feels good to not hide.”
The words gutted me. It feels good to not hide.
“You hid this to protect me,” I said softly, pulling both twins close. They came willingly, snuggling into my sides with the trust that only children could show. “I’m sorry you felt you had to.”
“You’re not scared?” Rowan asked hopefully, peering up at me.
“Of you? Never. You’re my babies, paws and all.”
They beamed at me, and I felt my heart crack and reshape itself to accommodate this new reality. They were still my children. Just... more. More special, more powerful, more than I’d ever imagined when I’d held them as newborns and promised to protect them from everything.
Knox watched from across the room, naked longing on his face as he observed our little family moment. The raw want in his expression made my skin prickle with awareness I resented.
“I could teach them,” he offered quietly, voice rough with emotion. “Control, safety, how to-”
“We’ll see,” I cut him off, not ready to give him that yet. But I was considering it. If they were really that advanced, that powerful, they’d need more than a mother who’d just learned werewolves existed. They’d need someone who understood what they were.
Even if that someone was the man who’d shattered my heart.
My phone rang, interrupting my spiral into acceptance. Sarah’s name flashed on the screen. I had to answer this one or she’d probably drive up here herself.
“Lina Winters, you better be dying or I’m driving up here myself,” Sarah’s voice was part worried grandmother, part scolding matriarch. “And I’m bringing my baseball bat.”
“I’m okay, Sarah. Really. It’s just... complicated family stuff.”
