What burns through our connection makes breathing difficult. Wonder. Terror. Savage pride. Love so fierce it borders on violence—the same intensity he brings to protecting what's his, now focused on this fragile creature who carries his blood.
"Centuries." His voice comes out destroyed. Raw. "I spent centuries alone. Convinced my line ended. That I was the last." His thumb strokes our daughter's cheek with devastating gentleness. "Mikhail tried to make that true. Killed Saoirse to ensure it."
"And failed." I reach up, touch his face. "You're holding proof he failed."
His jaw clenches. Emotion too big for words compressing behind his teeth. When he finally speaks, the words scrape out rough. "Saoirse. If you agree."
The name hits me. His murdered mate. The loss that shaped him. And now this—not replacing her, but honoring her memory while claiming our future.
I nod, throat tight. "Yes."
"Saoirse Rowan." He looks at me, aquamarine eyes bright with unshed tears he'd never let fall anywhere but here. "Ours."
Ours.The word settles into my chest. Perfect and terrifying and absolutely right.
Time blurs into new rhythms after Saoirse's birth. Sleep deprivation measured in stolen hours. Feeding schedulesthat change with dragon metabolism. Random shifts needing constant vigilance because a startled infant dragon has claws.
I document what I can. The data will help future dragon parents navigate what we're learning through trial and error. Pregnancy. The labor which progresses faster than human births. Newborns shift involuntarily until neural pathways develop enough for conscious control—estimated timeline twelve to eighteen months based on observed development patterns.
But some things can't be cataloged. Can't be reduced to data points and observations.
Like watching Finn learn to be a father.
The ancient dragon who spent millennia alone. Who killed without hesitation. Who never expected to hold his own child. That predator is learning gentleness I didn't know he possessed.
He holds Saoirse for hours. Just holds her. His massive hands cradling her tiny form while he teaches lessons I can't hear but feel through the bond. Dragon knowledge passed wordlessly from father to daughter. The first time she shifts in his arms, he doesn't flinch. Just adjusts his grip to accommodate scales and wings, murmuring sounds that rumble from his chest in a frequency that soothes her immediately.
When she cries at night—and dragon babies cry with impressive lung power—he's there before I fully wake. Scoops her from the cradle Grayson carved from driftwood and walks the cave with her against his shoulder. His hand spans her entire back. He's killed with those hands. Torn throats. Shattered bones. Now they pat our daughter's back with devastating care until she burps and settles.
The first time she shifts in her sleep, I wake to find him shifted beside her. His massive dragon form curled around her miniature one, crimson scales touching crimson scales. Wingstucked protectively around her. The predator and his offspring, both dreaming in forms humans fear.
I catalog that image. Not for research. For myself. Because it's beautiful in a way that steals breath.
Feeding is complicated. Dragon metabolism means she's hungry constantly. I nurse when I can, but supplementing is necessary. Moira brings formula enhanced with minerals dragon physiology requires. Finn feeds her with the same focused intensity he brings to combat. Bottle positioned correctly. Temperature checked obsessively. He studies her face while she eats like he's memorizing every detail.
"She has your mouth." He says it quietly one night, firelight catching the copper fuzz on Saoirse's head. "Human form. The shape of your lips."
I look at our daughter. Try to see what he sees. "She has your eyes."
"Yes." Satisfaction rumbles through the word. Through the bond. "She does."
His daughter. His bloodline. Unmistakable.
The Brotherhood visits regularly. Moira checks developmental milestones with clinical precision, tracking weight gain and shift frequency and the strengthening bond between Saoirse and her parents. Catriona brings impossibly small clothes with reinforced seams and tear-away panels, designed to accommodate sudden shifting. "Took me weeks to figure out the fasteners," she admits, demonstrating snaps that release under pressure. "But they work."
Eliza coordinates schedules with the efficiency that makes her invaluable to pack leadership. Ensures we're never alone during those first exhausted weeks. Brings meals. Takes night shifts when sleep deprivation threatens my ability to function. "Family helps," she says simply when I try to thank her.
Declan and Grayson expand the cave's safety features without being asked. Padding on sharp edges. Barriers around the fire pit. Shelving secured to walls. They work in silence, both alphas understanding the vulnerability of an infant who might shift into a form with talons and teeth.
Even Jax comes. Stands awkwardly in the doorway, grey wolf barely contained, until Saoirse looks at him with wide aquamarine eyes and holds his gaze without fear. Something changes in his expression. The lone wolf seeing what the pack protects. What they're building. He nods once to Finn—acknowledgment between predators—and leaves without words.
Brotherhood protecting their own.
But the moments I treasure most are the quiet ones. When it's just the three of us. Finn holding Saoirse while she sleeps, his hand spanning her tiny back. The bond between us humming with contentment instead of battle readiness. The cave that was his solitary lair transformed into home.
He catches me watching one night. Aquamarine eyes meeting mine over our daughter's sleeping form. "What?"
"You're good at this." I keep my voice soft. "Better than you thought you'd be."
