He didn’t finish. Percy’s grip on my hand tightened. Solomon’s fingers interlaced with mine over my belly. Lucian’s hand stilled in my hair.
“How long was I out?”
“Forty minutes,” Lucian said. Quiet. “The longest forty minutes of my life, and I’ve lived five centuries.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You were blue, Mira.”
That shut me up.
The tent flap tore open.
Percy and Solomon reacted on instinct. Both straightened, both turned, both positioned themselves between me and the entrance with a synchronization that would’ve been impressive if I wasn’t still too dizzy to appreciate it.
Two figures entered. A woman first. Tall, dark-haired, regal in a way that made Annora’s practiced elegance look rehearsed. A man behind her. Broad, silver-haired with dark tips, built with an authority that filled the tent the moment he crossed the threshold.
Percy stepped back. Not voluntarily. His body simply moved, the alpha yielding to a presence that outranked him on a level his wolf recognized before his brain did. Solomon did the same, one step to the side, his hand leaving my stomach.
Lucian didn’t move.
The woman fixed him with a look. Then she put both hands on his chest and shoved.
Lucian, King of Veyndral, alpha of the highest order, stumbled backward off his knee and landed on his ass.
“You’re in the way,” the woman said. And knelt beside me.
Every instinct I’d built over twenty-four years of survival screamed. Another lycan. Another woman with authority and ancient eyes and every reason to want me gone from a throne I’d never asked for. Annora’s words echoed through my skull. Abomination. Half-breeds. The dagger, the claws, the tea.
I closed my eyes and braced for the hit.
Warm hands landed on my belly. Gentle. Practiced. Counting heartbeats.
“Three,” she whispered. Then louder, over her shoulder: “Altun. Three heartbeats! Come feel this!”
The man knelt beside her. Pressed his palm to my stomach. His eyes closed and when they opened, the gruff exterior had cracked down the middle.
“Strong,” he said. “Stubborn heartbeats. They get that from our side.”
Our side.
I stared at the woman’s face. The bone structure. The dark hair. Then at the man. The silver strands with dark tips. The jaw. The exact angle Lucian carried his when he was pretending not to care.
Then at Lucian, still on the ground where his mother had shoved him, rubbing his tailbone with the dignity of a king who had none left.
Oh.
“I’m sorry.” My voice was still rough. “Who are you?”
The woman looked at me. Her expression bordered on offense. “I’m your mother-in-law, darling. Rheda. And this is Altun. We would have come sooner but my idiot child didn’t inform us right away and really, the portal was appalling.”
She turned back to my belly and started pressing at different points, muttering about prenatal nutrition and bond-channel stability and whether Farmon had been supplementing with the correct mineral compounds.
“The iron levels need attention,” she told Farmon. “And the calcium. Carrying three with a bond this fresh requires aggressive supplementation. What’s your current regimen?”
Farmon, who had survived Order imprisonment without losing his composure, blinked twice before answering.
Percy stood at the back of the tent. His jaw had detached from his face and was somewhere on the ground. Solomon watched the scene with the expression of a man recalibrating his understanding of reality. Lucian leaned against the tent pole with his arms crossed and rolled his eyes.
