Matthieu, who’d been docile following the birth of their first egg, spat a few livid sentences of rapid-fire French at Harry that Ian couldn’t decipher.
Harry frowned. “My French is still very bad, but I’ll take that to mean no.”
“I’ll do it,” Geoffrey volunteered. He rose from where he’d been and came to stand by Harry, then stroked Matthieu’s trembling thigh as if to reassure him. “The egg will still be within your field of vision, sweetest heart,” Geoffrey told Matthieu in French. “We won’t take it from you. Please, let me do this. The others need room to be born.”
“Do it,” Matthieu said, then slumped back onto the bed and pushed his lips closed, screaming into his mouth. Another contraction had hit. Matthieu’s hips perked, and with them, Harry’s interest.
“Oh.” Harry stepped back from the bed and fell into place beside Everard, who was observing the procedure. As soon as he did, Ian felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been to see another living being around his vulnerable mate and his growing clutch. “I think the second egg is already on its way! Do clutches usually take long to lay? I don’t recall Iggy’s taking very long at all.”
“The process is generally brief once the first egg has been laid,” Everard disclosed. He locked eyes with Ian, then tucked Harry to his side possessively. “At this point, sponge cake, I think it’s in our best interest to leave the laying omega to his mates. Unless there are complications, it’s best to observe.”
“Observe, yes,” Matthieu muttered in French. A sharp pain burst in their mate bond, making Ian wince. “If anyone comes close to me right now, Iwillbite them.”
“He sounds quite angry,” Harry noted.
“He is,” Ian confirmed. “For now, it’s best if you stay back.”
While Matthieu labored, Ian rose to the occasion, making sure that his needs were met. By working in tandem with Geoffrey, they were able to keep Matthieu as cool as they could, and when an inevitable mess occurred, they were able to take care of it promptly. While they worked, their peacocks brought offerings to the bed. Coins and jewels and several molted tail feathers were scattered across the sheets in Matthieu’s honor.
Finally, with a strained cry and a push, a new purple egg tumbled onto the towel Geoffrey and Ian had set between Matthieu’s legs. While it was still decidedly purple, this one was closer to burgundy. Ian marveled at it, his heart filling with joy. The vision of his family further took shape, his fantasy growing richer with each passing second.
Time passed quickly. With Geoffrey’s help, Ian made Matthieu as comfortable as he could be. Then, with an exhausted wail from Matthieu and a few strained moments spent pushing, the third egg was born.
The room was silent.
Harry cocked his head to the side. “Oh.”
“What is it?” Matthieu insisted. Breathless, he sat up to touch the egg, but stopped before his hand contacted the shell. His eyes widened.
The egg between Matthieu’s legs was not purple—it was the color of an apricot, and beyond a doubt fathered by Ian himself.
“Baby,” Matthieu gasped. He caressed the egg, then looked meaningfully at Ian and Geoffrey. Geoffrey took Ian’s hand and squeezed, but Ian was too shocked to reply. The clutch wouldn’t be uniquely Amethyst or Topaz, like they’d anticipated it would be. It would be mixed.
And that meant that the next two eggs…
The next two eggs might be his.
Ian’s mind melted down. Tears streaked his cheeks. Geoffrey kissed his shoulder, and Ian felt his reassurance seep in through their mate bond.
Love. Completion. Want.
Ian replied in kind.
Ours. All ours. So beautiful.
The fourth egg born was Topaz as well, and vibrantly hued. Its color reminded Ian of the fiery intensity of the petals of an orange poppy. Pride swelled in Ian’s chest and made him want to shout from untold heights in celebration of the lives Matthieu had given them—the lives they’d now raise together. Geoffrey squeezed his hand again, and this time, Ian squeezed back.
“Just a little more, Matthieu,” Geoffrey encouraged. “You’re almost there.”
“You’re so close, kitten,” Ian added. “Just one last egg. There’s just one more.”
Matthieu gasped and panted, his chest rising and falling in exertion. Geoffrey parted from Ian’s side to run the rag over his forehead again, washing away the sweat that had gathered there.
“So far, all of these have been single-bond eggs,” Harry noted, transfixed, from across the room. “That means that the last egg to be laid will be the twin! Oh, I can’t wait! Will it be Amethyst or Topaz?”
Matthieu let loose with a soul-jarring cry, and not long after answered Harry’s question.
The egg was not a pretty Amethyst purple, nor was it a delightful Topaz orange.
