“Impossible.”
“Gregor, he looks like he’s assessing the world around him.”
I studied him more closely.
Maybe he was mine. Not that it mattered. He was pack. “I’ll let Artem and Ivan know.”
“Is it safe?”
I nodded as I took out my encrypted phone.
“Everything okay?” Artem answered immediately.
The engine roar of a private jet filled the line. Ivan was speaking fast in Russian somewhere behind him.
“Yes.”
“Then you shouldn’t be calling,” Artem said, voice tight.
“I have news.”
Silence on the line as I looked at our omega and our child.
She was stroking Mac’s cheek with one fingertip, looking half dead with exhaustion and half lit from within.
“You need to secure that council seat quickly,” I said.
A beat.
Then a whisper, “Gregor.”
“Our pack has a baby. A son. His name is Mac.”
“A boy,” Artem said. The ice had gone clean out of his voice.
“I’m a father.”
“We are fathers,” I said.
Maeve lifted her head. “Tell him if he complains about the name, I’m divorcing him before I marry him.”
“Maeve said—”
“I heard.”
“Good,” she called toward the phone, voice hoarse. “I pushed him out without drugs and on your ridiculous expensive sofa, so I got naming rights.”
Artem went quiet for one more second. Then he laughed. Low. Broken. Disbelieving.
“Ivan wants to turn the plane around,” Artem said.
“Ivan is emotional. Do not turn the plane around,” I said.
“I can hear you, you giant bastard,” Ivan yelled.
Maeve smiled down at Mac. Her eyes were already drifting shut.
Artem’s voice changed again when he spoke. Softer. Controlled with visible effort.
