After the Bloodmoon

The weeks after Sloane’s turn were… a lot.

For her. For me. For everyone within a five‑mile radius, honestly.

She tried to pretend nothing had changed — classic Sloane — but her body had other plans. The first few days were the worst. Her senses were dialed up to eleven, her emotions were a live wire sparking at random, and her appetite doubled overnight like she was secretly feeding a second, invisible Sloane.

It tested my mom’s patience too. One Sunday she baked a cake, set it out to cool, turned around to mix the frosting — and by the time she looked back, there were only crumbs left and Sloane was standing there fighting the inner wolf like it was a toddler she couldn’t put in timeout.

“Sorry,” she said, smiling sheepishly, crumbs still on her lip.

And the nights? Oh, the nights.

At least three times that first week, my entire family — and half the neighborhood — woke up to Sloane’s impromptu sleep‑howling. She’d shuffle out onto my patio in a daze, tilt her head back, and let loose like she was calling the moon to clock in for her shift.

Sleepwalking? Sure. Sleep‑howling? New one for all of us.

And this time, she was the one sneaking around.

She decided it would be better not to rattle the cages of workplace propriety by rubbing her colleagues’ faces in our relationship — even though it wasn’t really a secret anymore. So officially, she “lived” in the work trailer during the week and her San Myshuno apartment on weekends.

Which fooled absolutely nobody.

So I played along, but it made zero sense to me. Everyone knew we were dating. Everyone knew I was to blame for the growing bump. And if they didn’t know, Lord help them, because they were legally blind and blessed with the IQ of a common tomato.

To most people, our relationship was blatantly obvious.

We still bickered like always — loudly, dramatically, and with the kind of chemistry that made people either root for us or pray for our swift breakup. I was still the unlucky tour guide dragging her and the crew to whatever site they needed next so they didn’t get lost. And Sloane was always there too.

We’d either disappear for suspicious lengths of time and I’d come back wearing a shade of lipstick that didn’t match my complexion… or we’d bicker at escalating volumes until someone threatened to walk home.

Add her being pregnant, and the fact that the whole crew frequented the Wolf Lodge — the bar across the street from my house — and they saw Sloane coming and going like she should have her mail forwarded here.

Because, guess what? She basically lived with me at this point. Unofficially, still, because… reasons. Reasons I could not, for the life of me, decode.

I am not fluent enough in woman to translate that properly. I’ve got a working vocabulary — compliments, apologies, the occasional survival phrase — but whatever dialect Sloane was speaking during those weeks? That was advanced coursework. Native‑speaker level. I was out of my depth.

She’d say things like, “It’s just easier this way,” or “I don’t want people I work with talking,” or my personal favorite, “It’s not about you,” which is woman‑speak for it is absolutely about you; there is no universe in which I can make my cringeworthy choice in partner and father of my child sound plausible to anyone who signs my paycheck, but I’m not ready to admit that yet.

So yeah. Unofficial. Technicality only.

She slept in my bed, stole my shirts, ate my food, howled on my patio, and left her hair ties in every room like territorial markers. I’d walk into the bathroom and find bras and pantyhose draped over my shower rod like festive bunting, only to spend the next ten minutes pulling wads of her hair out of the drain so I wouldn’t end up standing knee‑deep in water.

One morning, half‑asleep, I grabbed the wrong bottle in the shower and didn’t realize I’d used Sloane’s “special shampoo” until I was already massaging it in. Too late. The damage was done. I spent the entire day dragging around a pink cloud of girly, flowy, floral nonsense — the kind of scent that announces itself five seconds before you walk into a room.

I was the butt of every joke from dawn to dusk. The crew. My family. Random townsfolk. Even the mailman gave me a look.

By noon, I was seriously considering rolling in bear scat just to neutralize the smell.

My room was starting to feel like an estrogen‑laced girly‑themed parkour course — hair ties, lotion bottles, rogue makeup brushes, and the occasional pair of lacy panties lying in wait like booby traps, while my own closet seemed to have moved in with her. All my flannel shirts she always gave me shit about, then ended up wearing and going home in till I had to borrow something to wear from Dad or Grandpa until I could go over to her trailer with a duffel bag to rescue my clothes back. In turn I also suddenly had tons of shoes, except none of them were my style or fit me.

Every corner held some new reminder that a woman lived here.

And not just any woman — Sloane. A woman who shed hair like a golden retriever in spring, left lotion caps half‑twisted so they leaked onto my dresser, and somehow managed to colonize my entire closet with dresses, cardigans, and those tiny little ankle socks that look like they belong on a doll.

My laundry basket? A war zone. Half my clothes, half hers, and one pair of tights that somehow wrapped around everything like a boa constrictor.

My shower? A crime scene. Shampoo bottles in pastel colors, conditioners with names like “Moonlit Orchid,” exfoliators that smelled like dessert, and a razor that was definitely not mine but somehow lived on my shelf.

And the shoes. Dear god, the shoes.

I went from owning three pairs — work boots, sneakers, and “church if I’m forced” — to suddenly having a collection that looked like a boutique exploded. Heels, flats, boots, sandals, things with straps, things with buckles, things that looked like medieval torture devices. All neatly lined up next to my size‑thirteen work boots like they were mocking me.

But sure — she “lived” in the work trailer.

If you squinted. From orbit. While concussed.

Whenever I so much as attempted to complain, she’d get all sweet and snuggly and suddenly I was a big dumb ape making mountains out of molehills. One second I was gearing up for a very reasonable, very adult conversation about boundaries and personal space, and the next she was curling into me like a cat, kissing my jaw, and I’d forget what language was.

And she wasn’t shy about smooching on me at random, either. Didn’t matter who was around — as long as it was outside regular business hours, she’d plant one on me without hesitation. Crew members, neighbors, my family, the UPS guy — didn’t matter. If the sun was down and she felt like kissing me, she did.

Meanwhile I’d be standing there, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while she was hanging off me like I was her personal jungle gym. And every time I tried to say something like, “Sloane, seriously, we need to talk about—” she’d just tilt her head, give me that soft little smile, and suddenly my brain would short‑circuit like a cheap toaster.

It was impossible to stay annoyed at her. Infuriatingly impossible.

She weaponized affection. She deployed cuddles like tactical strikes. She’d nuzzle into my chest and my entire argument would dissolve into caveman noises.

And the worst part? She knew it. She absolutely knew it.

She’d kiss me in front of the crew, then walk off like she hadn’t just turned me into a malfunctioning appliance. And the crew would stare at me like, bro, you good? while I tried to remember basic functions.

So yeah. She “didn’t live with me.” Sure. Right. Absolutely.

Except for the part where she lived with me in every way that mattered — and made damn sure I didn’t mind one bit.

So no, we weren’t hiding anything. We just weren’t renting marquees to announce it.

And it all started mostly out of necessity — out of concern for her and everyone’s safety. After a few near‑misses of her waking up partially shifted and calling me in a panic, she stayed at my place. It was safer. I could get to her fast. Talk her down before the wolf took over.

Those first nights were rough. She’d bolt upright in bed, eyes glowing faintly, breath coming fast, claws half‑formed at her fingertips. Sometimes she’d call my name like she wasn’t sure if she was dreaming or shifting. Sometimes she’d just cling to me like I was the only thing tethering her to her human skin.

And I’d sit with her — hands on her shoulders, voice low, steady — talking her back from the edge. “Hey. I’m here. You’re okay. Breathe with me.” Over and over until her pulse slowed and the wolf receded.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t romantic. It was survival.

And once you’ve seen a woman you love half‑shifted and terrified in the dark, you don’t let her sleep alone. Not on your watch. Not when one bad dream could turn into a full transformation and a missing wall. And that was only the beginning of the potential carnage.

So yeah — she stayed with me. Not because we were playing house. Not because we were making some big relationship statement. But because it was the only safe option.

At least, that’s how it started.

Then it turned into her leaving a toothbrush. Then a hairbrush. Then half her wardrobe. Then her entire nighttime routine. Then her wolf‑induced midnight cravings that required my fridge to be stocked like a 7‑Eleven.

And before I knew it, she wasn’t “staying over.” She was there. Every night. Every morning. Every moment in between.

But if you asked her?

She “lived” in the work trailer.
And her apartment in San Myshuno, which she stubbornly refused to give up even though her neighbors barely remembered her at this point. Then again, we’re talking about San Myshuno, so that’s not saying too much.

Sure. Right. Absolutely.

She’d wake up starving, devouring anything she could get her hands on, then gag at the smell of her favorite coffee. She’d cry at commercials, then snap at me for asking if she was okay. She’d insist she felt “totally normal,” then jump three feet in the air because a squirrel sneezed outside.

Becoming Lycan was rough on anyone — born with it or not — but adding a pregnancy on top of that? That was a masterclass in suffering. Nobody envied Sloane for what she had to deal with, and even Esmee showed a level of patience I didn’t know she possessed.

Ezzy — my grandpa’s wife — was… a spicy one. It’s what first attracted him to her. My mom was pretty mellow, but apparently I inherited Grandpa Mike’s taste, because I went for the spicy type again. Both of them loved rubbing that in my face.

“Takes after me, your kid!” Grandpa Mike would say, thumping his chest like he’d personally contributed to my questionable romantic patterns. “Good genes!”

And honestly? He wasn’t wrong.

I don’t know if I could handle a “good girl.” I’m not built for soft edges and quiet compliance. I’m polite, I’m helpful, I’ll carry your groceries and fix your fence — but I’m also an asshole. Had to be. The way I grew up, you didn’t survive by being gentle, and you sure as hell didn’t earn respect by being light in the loafers. Not here. Not in a town full of brawny lumberjacks who drink like fish, fight like it’s cardio, and turn into wolves every full moon.

And if you’re the future Alpha? Forget it. You don’t get to be soft.

You’re the one who has to keep all those men in line — the ones who’d rather settle disagreements with fists, claws, or headbutting each other hard enough one would go through a wall. You’re the one who has to stand in front of them and make them listen. Make them follow. Make them stop before someone gets hurt.

I needed them to think I had a massive‑sized dick and had to believe it myself too, enough to swing it around occasionally to shoot down any silly ideas of mutiny. Let me say it again: wolves are a very rough crowd. Not the type you can reason with seated around a conference table. And one single one can be extremely dangerous — you do the math on a pack of them.

These guys don’t respond to calm mediation or team‑building exercises. They respond to dominance, confidence, and the kind of presence that makes them think twice before doing something stupid. You can’t walk in soft. You can’t hesitate. You can’t show doubt. They smell it. Literally.

And if you’re the future Alpha? You’re not allowed to have an off day.

You’re the one who has to break up fights before they turn into full‑blown brawls. You’re the one who has to stare down a pissed‑off wolf twice your size and make him back down. You’re the one who has to keep the peace in a community where “peace” is usually defined as “nobody died … yet.”

I needed to project strength. I needed to be the guy who could walk into a room full of volatile, half‑feral men and make them shut up with a look. I needed to be the one they followed because they trusted me… and feared me just enough.

So yeah. I needed someone who could go toe‑to‑toe with me. Sloane was that woman. Someone who wouldn’t fold the second I raised my voice or pushed back. Someone who could match my fire with her own. And someone who would be able to handle the others in a time of adversity. For better or worse, this was now her home, her crowd, her life. And she wasn’t afraid of the others, that she had proven many times now.

Sloane wasn’t just spicy — she was a whole damn wildfire. And I loved her for it.

And through all of it, she kept trying to go to work like she wasn’t one bad meeting away from accidentally snapping at her boss. And I don’t mean verbally. You really have to be careful with the wolf inside you until you’re acquainted enough to know what the other will do. She still had a way to go.

One thing is always true: wolves are dangerous, and often unpredictable, especially new ones. They’re at the mercy of the moon, their temper, and whatever instinct decides to flare up next. Until you learn control.

Sloane was already at an advantage. Most new wolves have to figure it out alone. She had me and my family — a cluster of Alphas, past, present, and future, and the women who loved them — which sped up the process tremendously and made it safer for everyone.

But even with all that support, she was still a newly turned wolf at the tail end of her first trimester — a hormonal cocktail shaken, stirred, and set on fire.

And we were just getting started.

Training Days

Training started almost immediately — not because she wanted it, but because she needed it. The inner wolf doesn’t wait politely for your calendar to open up. It doesn’t care about your deadlines, your meetings, or your carefully color‑coded planner. It’s ancient, instinctive, and loud.

And Sloane… well, she was still Sloane. Which meant our sessions had teeth and claws regardless of the wolf part.

Her first session was rough. She stood in the clearing with her arms crossed, glaring at me like I’d personally invented lycanthropy and handed it to her as a prank.

“This is stupid,” she muttered. “I feel stupid doing all that.”

“It’s necessary,” I said.

“I don’t even feel wolfy.”

“You say that,” I told her, “but your pupils are blown and you’re breathing like you ran here.”

She glared harder. Her pupils blew wider.

We started with grounding — scent, breath, posture. She hated all of it.

“You sound like a yoga influencer,” she snapped. “If you start tapping your nails on something while holding it into a camera, I swear I am going to Sulani for a week.”

“I’m trying to keep you from accidentally mauling a barista. You know what I’m talking about. That last time, when that poor girl spelled your name without the ‘e’ at the end.”

She paused. “…Fair. But Sloane should have an ‘e’ at the end or it just looks wrong. If she wasn’t sure, she could have asked.”

That was when her nails sharpened and hair started carpeting her arms. She panicked. I will never forget that shrill scream — it took ages to calm her back down.

The second time, she swore so creatively I’m pretty sure the trees learned new vocabulary. The third time, she stopped it.

I was proud. She was glowing with pride, but pretended it wasn’t a big deal. It was a big deal.

Every day after work, she came straight to the clearing. Some days she was exhausted. Some days she was furious. Some days she was so overwhelmed she’d just sit in the grass and breathe until she could stand again.

But she kept showing up. That’s the thing about Sloane — she doesn’t quit. Not even when her biology is rewriting itself. Not even when she’s at the tail end of her first trimester, nauseous, overstimulated, and one loud noise away from shifting.

My dad and grandpa tried to help, which was… something.

One time Grandpa brought her a raw steak “for scent training,” which made her gag so hard she had to sit down — pregnancy plus wolf instincts is a hell of a combo. She was creeping toward the end of her first trimester by then, the point where nausea comes and goes like a moody roommate. She puked so hard I thought we’d have to take her to urgent care, but then the wolf surged up and she nearly took Grandpa Mike’s arm off devouring that steak.

“Hey, I was gonna… never mind,” he grumbled, watching the future mother of his great‑grandkid burp like a satisfied bear while pushing the transformation back down.

Another time, Dad tried to demonstrate a controlled shift but sneezed mid‑shift and half‑shifted his face. Sloane screamed, then laughed until she cried, wheezing and literally rolling in the grass.

They adored her. She adored them too — which was why she tolerated their tough love without the usual Hartwell head‑bite‑off reflex. That was mostly reserved for me.

Say what you will about fatherhood, but whenever that baby comes, I earned it every bit as much as Sloane did. She has the pain during delivery. I have it the forty weeks prior.

By the end of her second month of training, she could stop a partial shift before it started. By the third, she could sense when it was coming. By the fourth, she could control her breathing enough to keep her wolf from reacting to every loud noise, strong smell, or sudden emotion.

Stopping the wolf before it surfaced — that was the biggest milestone.

She wasn’t stable yet — not fully — but she was getting there. A quick study. A damn impressive one. We all saw it.

Training would take months, maybe a year. But she almost had the most important lesson down. And she was doing it while pregnant.

Every night, when she collapsed into bed beside me — exhausted, frustrated, proud, terrified — I held her until she fell asleep.

Because she was doing something impossible. And she was doing it anyway.

The Long Middle

It happened on a Thursday night, right after one of Sloane’s tougher training sessions — the kind where she was sweaty, pissed off, annoyed by the wind in the trees, and radiating “I swear to God if that goddamn bird doesn’t stop screaming I’m shifting and eating it and the entire tree it was on.”

Alrighty then.

Dad, Grandpa, and I went out for a quick perimeter check — nothing serious, just the usual “make sure no rogue wolves are sniffing around” routine. We weren’t even in wolf form. Just three large men walking through the woods like some bizarre wilderness boyband.

The forest was quiet, the air cool, the moon bright enough to silver the treetops. The kind of night that should’ve been peaceful.

Should’ve.

We heard them before we saw them — giggling, whispering, the unmistakable sound of teenagers about to make a very bad decision in the wrong part of the forest.

Dad stopped. Grandpa groaned. I muttered, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

We stepped into the clearing and found two kids — maybe fifteen, sixteen — tangled up in the world’s most awkward attempt at romance. Clothes askew, limbs everywhere, like two baby deer trying to reenact a soap opera.

Dad crossed his arms. Grandpa cleared his throat like a disappointed church elder. I just stared.

The kids froze.

Dad said, “Absolutely not.”

Grandpa added, “Go home — get on your computers and read up on birth control. And what happens when you don’t use it.”

I pointed vaguely toward civilization. “Seriously. Out.”

They bolted so fast one of them left a shoe behind.

We stood there in silence for a moment.

Then Dad started laughing. Grandpa joined in. I didn’t.

Because suddenly, all I could think about was my future child — whatever gender of tiny werewolf gremlin Sloane was currently incubating — being that age someday.

And being some teenager thinking this was a good idea.

I felt my soul leave my body.

As if he could read minds, Dad clapped me on the back. “Welcome to fatherhood.”

Grandpa nodded solemnly. “Yup. Just pray the kid is a boy. You want the one whose brain changes into dozens of tentacles when they see a decent-looking girl once puberty hits, not the one having to fight off the tentacles.”

Dad smirked. “Yeah, hope for a boy. Let’s be honest — all three of us used to be teenage boys, and all three of us could’ve been — and probably were — guilty of doing exactly what that kid was going for. The success rate was… concerning. And the male brain at that age? Absolute gutter sludge.”

Grandpa snorted. “Speak for yourself. I was a gentleman.”

Dad barked a laugh. “You got Mom pregnant at seventeen. And you weren’t even dating. She was going out with someone else.”

Grandpa pointed at him. “And you knocked up your girlfriend at sixteen. And none of us even knew you were dating!”

They both shrugged like this was normal family trivia.

“Wait… and I always thought you were thrilled to have been boy‑dads because of… I don’t know. Playing catch in the yard, carrying on the last name or something.”

Both roared with laughter, Dad clapping me hard on the back, wanting to speak but unable to, so Grandpa stepped in.

“Yeah, kid, that was it. Because Shaw is such a rare and unique name. And don’t forget the family fortune and estates.”

They burst into another round of roaring laughter and turned to walk off, leaving me standing there with the sudden, horrifying realization that I was potentially about to raise a daughter in a world full of teenage boys with tentacles and gutter minds exactly like… I used to be. Or even kinda still was.

I stared at the trees, horrified. “If my kid is a girl, I’m buying the biggest shotgun they legally sell. Actually, fuck legal. I am going on the dark web and buy a huge ass flamethrower or something!”

The laughter volume increased again.

I had been partial to raising a little Sloane — a sweet little girl with her momma’s smile — but now I was genuinely hoping, praying, bargaining with the universe for a boy. Some brawny dude who just wanted to rumble with other boys, go hunting and fishing and all that crap, not a thought in his mind about girls.

The Ultrasound

The clinic was brighter than I expected. Too bright. The kind of bright that made you feel like you were already in trouble. Everything smelled like disinfectant and medical‑grade hand soap, and the chairs were the kind designed to make you sit up straight and reconsider your life choices.

Sloane sat beside me, hands folded over her small but unmistakable bump — the kind only people who knew her body would notice — pretending she wasn’t nervous. She’d dressed like she was going into a board meeting: blazer, neat blouse, hair perfect. But her foot was tapping like she was trying to drill through the floor.

“You okay?” I asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” she said — the biggest lie she’d told all week.

I didn’t call her on it. I just took her hand. She let me.

The nurse called her name, and we followed her down a hallway lined with framed photos of smiling babies. Sloane stared at them like they were threats. Honestly, same.

Inside the exam room, the nurse handed her a folded sheet. “Go ahead and lift your shirt to just below the ribs. We’ll tuck this in.”

Sloane did, cheeks pink. She hated being fussed over. Hated being vulnerable even more.

The nurse dimmed the lights a little. “Your provider will be right in.”

When the door clicked shut, Sloane exhaled shakily.

“I feel idiotic and look ridiculous,” she muttered. “Like I’m displaying my stomach.”

“You look beautiful,” I said. “As does your stomach.” I leaned over and kissed it, whispering, “You hear that nonsense your mom is babbling, kid?”

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched.

The door opened again, and the ultrasound tech walked in — a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a badge that said Marcy.

“Good morning, Sloane. And… partner?” she asked, glancing at me.

“Vince,” I said, resisting the urge to say something stupid like I’m the one who caused this mess lol, you’re welcome for keeping you in business because I doubted either woman would laugh.

She smiled. “Great. Let’s take a look at your little one today. Then again, looking at the father, I have a feeling ‘little’ might be optimistic. Is your height genetic?”

“Guess so. My dad and grandpa are pretty big and broad as well.”

She gave Sloane a pitying smile. “Brace yourself for a big baby then. You already look a lot larger than I would expect at your stage. I assume you’ve already talked about birthing options with your OB/GYN?”

Sloane’s fingers tightened around mine.

“Yeah. I wanted full anesthesia but apparently you guys don’t offer that,” she half‑joked.

Smiling knowingly, Marcy pulled up the machine, squeezed warm gel onto the wand, and pressed it gently to Sloane’s stomach.

The screen flickered. Static. Shadows. Movement.

Marcy angled the probe, her expression shifting — not alarmed, but focused.

“Okay…” she murmured. “Give me just a moment.”

Sloane’s breath hitched. My wolf went on alert, ears metaphorically up, hackles metaphorically raised.

Then the image sharpened.

Sharper blobs now. Still nothing helpful to me — just a grayscale Rorschach test of parental panic.

But Marcy saw something. She smiled.

“Well,” she said softly, “looks like you two are overachievers.”

Sloane blinked. “We— what?”

Marcy pointed to the screen. “On the upside, the size is quite normal for your stage. Here’s Baby A… and here’s Baby B. Both measuring right on track.”

Sloane stared. I stared. My heart stopped, rebooted, and came back with a whole new operating system.

“A… and B… as in… as in…” Sloane whispered, eyes huge.

I realized my mouth was hanging open when drool hit my leg. I snapped it shut.

Twins.

TWINS.

For generations, my family had one child. One was tradition. One was survival. One was enough.

And I came through the gates with two.

Sloane whispered, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Meanwhile, I was already picturing her family’s reaction. The man who’d knocked up their daughter without a ring, scared their beloved fluff‑monster Pip into submission, and ruined their heirloom bathroom toilet roll crochet contraption… had now delivered not one but TWO Bulls Eyes.

I could practically see the black rental van pulling up to kidnap me and dump me into some bog, mafia-style.

Marcy laughed gently. “I don’t joke about such things. Two babies. Both healthy. Strong heartbeats. Congratulations.”

Sloane turned her head toward me, eyes wide, pupils blown like she was halfway to shifting.

“Vince,” she breathed, “there are two. We made TWO. One was ambitious, but what are we supposed to do with TWO?!”

I squeezed her hand. “Same thing we would’ve done with one… just twice, sweetheart. We’ll figure it out.”

She didn’t cry. She didn’t panic. She just stared at the screen like the universe had personally walked in and slapped her in the face with a plot twist.

Marcy clicked a few buttons. “Would you like to know the sexes?”

Sloane swallowed. “Yes. Please. God, yes. I don’t have the nerves for more surprises.”

I was praying for two boys. I’d rather deal with teenage boys doing stupid things than have a daughter… desecrated by some teenage boy like I once was. If that was two daughters, I was going to castrate myself in the parking lot.

Marcy angled the wand again, searching. The room hummed.

Then she nodded.

“Baby A… is a boy.”

Sloane let out a shaky laugh. Something in my chest unclenched.

Thank God.

“And Baby B…” Marcy paused, smiling wider. “…is a little girl.”

Sloane slapped a hand over her mouth. I inhaled so hard and sharply I almost passed out.

A girl. A teenage daughter someday. I was absolutely researching shotguns.

Marcy printed the images and handed them to Sloane, who held them like they were made of glass.

“Congratulations,” she said warmly. “One of each. Most parents consider that the perfect set.”

Perfect?!

When she left the room, both of us staggered out like we’d been sedated. We waddled into the parking lot, hand in hand, where Sloane finally looked at me.

“Vince,” she whispered, voice trembling, “we’re having two babies. At once.”

“Uh‑huh,” I murmured. “And one of them is a girl. I’m going to have to shoot all teenage boys when she grows up. Or maybe just… castrate them. Humanely.”

“What?” she blinked at me.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Two Little Wolves

When we got home and shared the news, the reactions were… predictable.

Dad and Grandpa laughed so hard I’m pretty sure they both pulled something. Grandpa actually had to sit down on the stairs, wheezing like he’d just run a marathon. Dad slapped my back so many times I think he was trying to burp me like an infant.

Mom melted into the floorboards, hands clasped under her chin, eyes shining like she’d just witnessed a miracle. Within thirty seconds she was on the phone with every relative we had — and a bunch of people who probably couldn’t care less.

Esmee didn’t say a word. She just turned around and walked straight to their bedroom.
A door closed. My guess was that she was screaming into a stack of pillows while kicking the walls.
She never cared about kids, and now she’d have two of them in the house. Two babies. Two wolf babies.

Meanwhile, Sloane sat on the couch in a daze, ultrasound photos fanned out in her hands like tarot cards predicting our doom.

I sat beside her, equally stunned, equally vibrating with panic, equally trying to look like a functioning adult.

She whispered, “Vince… two. Two babies. At once.”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. And one of them is a girl. Which means I need to start researching shotguns. Or chastity belts. Or maybe I’ll just build a moat.”

She blinked at me. “A moat.”

“With piranhas in it,” I added. “And sharks and alligators.”

She stared at me for a long moment, then leaned her head on my shoulder with a tiny, exhausted laugh.

And for a second — just a second — everything felt still.

The house. The world. The future.

Two heartbeats. Two tiny wolves. Two lives we had made together.

I wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, feeling the warmth of her, the weight of her, the quiet tremble of someone who had just had her entire life rewritten in a single afternoon.

“We’re gonna be okay,” I murmured into her hair. “We’ll figure it out.”

She nodded against me. “Yeah. We will. We gotta. No way back now.”

The Big Reveal

So, with the news at hand, Mom and Sloane decided we would host the baby shower.

Honestly, I’d heard of such things but never been to one, nor did I have the faintest idea what to expect. All I could picture was the Hartwells and Langfords trying to survive the backwoods charm of my ancestral log cabin — a place roomy enough to house a small militia, sure, but still very much rustic. Rustic in the way that makes Newcrest residents clutch their pearls.

Mom also invited her parents and siblings, and I was torn between honored and horrified that they all said yes.

Just to recap: Sloane’s family is as straight‑laced and conservative as it gets. My family is… not. We’re secretly werewolves. Aunt Fiona is a vampire who looks too young to be my aunt. Her husband is a centuries‑old mage who’s been reborn more times than I’ve changed hairstyles. Their daughter is a feisty mage with a fuse the length of a matchstick. On the other side, Grandpa Connell looks my age, his wife Emmy looks my age, and Uncle Damon also looks my age, all of them vampires. We agreed to sell them all as “family friends.” They deserved to be there, and the rest would just have to be dealt with.

Naturally, my family prepped the entire town, forbidding anything even remotely werewolf‑like.

Also naturally, my family prepared way too much food. We had to set up outside — thankfully a bright, sunny late‑spring day — and planned to let the rest of town eat once the guests had their fill. That also helped with the vampires, who could eat but were picky enough to starve at a barbecue. Well, if they would starve. You get what I mean.

Booze was another problem. Both Mom and Sloane were nervous wrecks, so I had to keep Mom from accidentally getting wasted and Sloane from sneaking “just a sip” of what she called her “nerve calmer.”

She was noticeably pregnant now, and we’d avoided telling her family it was twins. They were blissfully unaware of both number and gender. That revelation was coming today. Made me want to drink.

My family arrived first — not shocking, considering none of them used cars.

Then came the convoy from the ’burbs. Sloane’s parents rolled up in their standard‑issue pearl‑white Lexus RX — the official vehicle of respectable Newcrest families — and behind them Evan eased the Langford family show‑off car, a glossy black BMW X7, down our dirt road like it was a wounded gazelle. The thing had clearly never seen mud before. Well, now it had. You’re welcome, buddy.

The minute Sloane’s family stepped out, she tried to bolt, but I caught her and pulled her close. Their faces said everything — disbelief, confusion, polite horror — before the fake smiles kicked in. Handshakes followed, and of course Dad and Grandpa forgot to tone down their strength, nearly ripping arms out of sockets. Then came the staring at Connell, Emmy, Damon, Fiona, and Eirwen — all light‑blonde, drop‑dead gorgeous, dressed in dark colors like upper‑class goth runway models. And then there was Gwydion, all gloom and shadows, thankfully speaking in modern English instead of whatever dialect he’d picked up in the Dark Ages.

Grandpa nearly gave them all heart attacks when he spotted some Townies — wolves from our pack in human form — creeping toward the buffet like raccoons with a death wish – trying to sneak food early. They were already struggling to process how a man who looked seventy could be that tall, that broad, and that terrifyingly spry. The Hartwells and Langfords had no frame of reference for what happened next.

One of the Townies reached for a deviled egg.
Grandpa Mike moved.
Not walked. Not jogged. Moved.

A blur of plaid and fury shot across the yard, and before anyone could blink, Grandpa was on them like a linebacker possessed.

“Don’t you even think about it!” he barked, kicking his leg up so fast and so high it missed one Townie’s backside by a millimeter. The poor guy yelped and leapt three feet sideways, arms pinwheeling.

Another Townie tried to dart around him. Grandpa pivoted — impossibly fast for a man his age — and snapped, “I see you, boy! Don’t make me come over there!”

The Hartwells froze. The Langfords froze. Even the vampires froze.
Connell called out a concerned “Michael!” Grandpa Mike only waved him off “I got it, Connell, all good, buddy!”

Grandpa herded the Townies backward like unruly cattle, snapping out things that were definitely not grandfatherly:

“Hands off the food till the guests eat, you fucking braindead heathens! Move your asses outta here — and don’t make me chase you again! I swear to God, if one of you touches that brisket before Eleanor Hartwell does, I’ll mount your hide on the porch!”

The Townies scattered like pigeons, tripping over each other in their haste to escape. Grandpa stood victorious, chest heaving, glaring after them like a war general who’d just defended his homeland.

Then he turned back toward the guests, straightened his shirt, and said in the calmest voice imaginable, “Apologies. They’re… enthusiastic. My daughter-in-law is known to be a great cook and they just couldn’t contain themselves.”

The Hartwells stared at him like he’d just performed an exorcism.

Sloane’s mother clutched her pearls. Paul blinked rapidly, as if rebooting. Blair mouthed what the hell at Evan. Evan mouthed it back.

And Grandpa, satisfied with his work, wandered off whistling.

Naturally, Eleanor had brought dishes — plural — because arriving with just one would apparently be a personal failure. She unveiled a magazine‑ready charcuterie board, a trifle layered like stained glass, and a casserole she insisted was “a family classic.” Blair, not to be outdone, arrived with a Pinterest‑coded dessert spread, a quinoa salad no one asked for, and a full mocktail station she called “Sloane’s Sip Bar.”

My family’s brains weren’t braining that type of food. I’d been to the Hartwell house enough times to be somewhat prepared, but my parents and grandparents were not, and the others wisely kept their distance.

The wolves tried — they really did — but the moment Eleanor’s charcuterie board and Blair’s dessert spread hit the table, every Shaw male made the exact same face. The polite, tight‑lipped, wide‑eyed, what in God’s name is this prissy crap face. Dad stared in sheer horror and disbelief at the charcuterie board with figs and honeycomb. His face did the wolf equivalent of buffering. He leaned toward Mom and whispered, “Is that… food? Or decoration?” Mom shrugged helplessly.

Grandpa Mike squinted at the board and muttered to me, “Why’s the meat folded like flowers?” Esmee hissed at him to behave, adding “So it looks pretty, you ape!”
“Meat ain’t supposed to be pretty,” he grumbled. “Meat’s supposed to be plenty. We got maybe two bites here if I slow down. What’s everyone else supposed to eat?” “That’s why your daughter‑in‑law cooked,” Esmee snapped. “And you will not eat too much. We’ve been over this. Now we pick at things. Once they leave, we feast. Got it?” Mom elbowed him from the other side. “Be nice.” “I am nice,” Grandpa muttered. “I didn’t say it out loud.” “You literally just did,” Mom sighed.

Blair walked in with her pastel dessert platter, and the wolves froze like someone had pulled a gun. Dad whispered, “What the hell is a… mac‑a‑ron?” Grandpa frowned. “Looks like a soap.” Dad eyed the pastel colors. “Why is everything baby‑shower colored? The kids aren’t even born yet.”

Evan set down Blair’s quinoa‑kale‑pomegranate salad, and the wolves stared at it like it was a live grenade. Dad murmured, “Is that… bird food?” Grandpa shook his head. “No, birds wouldn’t eat that. They ain’t stupid enough. But they seem to think we are.” Mom tried to salvage the moment. “Boys, it’s quinoa. It’s healthy.” “So is grass,” Grandpa said. “You don’t see me eating that, do you?”

Paul followed Eleanor like a loyal spaniel as she proudly unveiled her trifle. Dad leaned toward me. “What in God’s name is a trifle?” Grandpa studied it. “Looks like someone dropped a cake and tried to hide the evidence by layering it with pudding.” Jaymie sighed. “It’s a dessert, Mike.” “It’s a mess in a bowl,” Grandpa insisted. “I’m no Jamie Oliver, but I couldn’t have done worse.”

But everything — even the vampires — came to a halt when Blair set up “Sloane’s Sip Bar.” We all stared at the syrups, fruit purées, and garnishes like they were alien artifacts. Dad cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, we didn’t realize a bar setup was required.” “It’s a mocktail station,” Blair said brightly. “So it’s juice,” Grandpa concluded. “It’s elevated,” Blair insisted. Grandpa leaned toward me. “Elevated juice. Hear that, boy? That’s what you’re marrying into. You’ll be serving your babies elevated juices and purées.”

Esmee had enough. She pulled us aside, delivered a brief but effective “behave or die” speech, and sent us back out.

We tried.

Dad picked up a macaron, sniffed it, and murmured, “Oh. It’s a cookie. I thought it was a bath bomb.” Grandpa tried the quinoa salad, chewed once, and declared, “Nope,” before immediately grabbing ribs. I attempted diplomacy. “They’re just not used to… elevated food.” “Food shouldn’t be fancy,” Grandpa muttered. “Food should be food. And plenty of it.”

Eleanor smiled tightly, on the verge of fainting, until Connell swooped in with perfect charm, complimenting everything with such sincerity and eloquence she forgot all about us wolves, her cheeks tinted pink as she brushed her hair behind her ear like a schoolgirl. Bless that man.

Connell smiled at her, and she practically melted faster than butter on a hot griddle.

He had that effect on people — especially women. Connell walked in with that vampiric elegance, all blond hair and violet eyes and posture so perfect it made everyone else look like they’d been assembled incorrectly. He didn’t just enter a room; he glided in and commandeered it quietly, like the air parted for him out of respect.

Eleanor didn’t stand a chance.

One moment she was stiff as a board, eyeing the mounted elk head like it might leap off the wall and attack her. The next, Connell complimented her dishes — “You are a remarkable talent as a chef, Mrs. Hartwell. Everything was absolutely delicious.” — and she giggled like she was sixteen and he’d just offered to carry her books to class.

“Oh please, call me Eleanor,” she breathed, fluttering her lashes like she was auditioning for a perfume commercial.

Meanwhile, Paul — loyal, quiet, spaniel‑like Paul — stood beside her blinking slowly, like he’d just witnessed a miracle he wasn’t sure he approved of. He wasn’t jealous. Paul didn’t do jealous. He did “gentle bewilderment.” And right now, he was radiating it like a space heater.

Sloane leaned toward me and whispered, “My mom is fangirling your grandpa. Words I never thought I’d mutter and find funny. Poor Daddy. He looks jealous.”

I whispered back, “So am I. She met him five minutes ago and wants to be on a first‑name basis with him. She never offered that to me.”

Sloane snorted, trying to hide it behind her hand.

We both stared as Connell — blond, elegant, violet‑eyed menace that he is — offered Eleanor his arm. And Eleanor, sixty‑something suburban royalty, linked hers through his like she’d been waiting her whole life for a man with posture that good. Then the two of them disappeared out onto the back deck, leaving behind a very confused Paul.

Paul blinked after them, slow and bewildered, like someone had just stolen his wife using nothing but impeccable manners and bone structure.

I looked over at Emmy — Connell’s wife, my grandma — who caught my eye and winked. Then, with the same smooth confidence her husband had just deployed, she headed straight for Paul and slipped her arm through his.

Poor man didn’t know what hit him. Well, all is fair in love and war, right?

To my horror, I spotted Eirwen chatting with Blair — laughing like old friends. Eirwen caught my expression and gave me a look that said, Aww, sweet cousin, thinking WE’D be the embarrassing ones. Cute.

Then came the big reveal.

Since we’d lied about not knowing the genders, we’d ordered gender‑reveal poppers. When everyone was settled, Sloane and I gathered them and grabbed the cannons. Mom counted to three, and we set them off.

Blue. And pink.

The buffering bars over everyone’s heads were almost visible.

“Something is wrong,” Eleanor sputtered. “One is blue and one is pink.” I couldn’t tell if she truly didn’t get it or just didn’t want to.

Leave it to Eirwen — who hadn’t been told either — to nail it instantly. She sipped her sparkling wine and said, “Nope. It’s twins. One of each. What did I win?”

Blair made a noise I can’t describe. Evan rubbed her back, wide‑eyed. Eleanor and Paul stared like they’d seen a ghost. Eleanor’s knees buckled, and Esmee and Paul guided her to a chair. Brian — Blair and Evan’s oldest — blinked up at his mother and asked, “Mommy, what is twins?”

That was when the door opened and Sloane’s Uncle Rick walked in with Jace and Milo. “Good grief, you guys are hard to find,” Rick said, before Jace nudged him and they all took in the scene — Eleanor pale, Blair rattled, blue and pink glitter everywhere. Rick whistled. “Ah, shit. Twins? Congratulations!”

Once the initial shock – and the damn glitter – settled and Eleanor stopped fanning herself with a napkin like she’d survived a natural disaster, the questions began.

Blair recovered first. She smoothed her blouse, squared her shoulders, and said, “Well… since we’re apparently celebrating two babies now, I assume you’ve started looking into names? Are there any lists yet? Do you take input?”

Every Hartwell head swiveled toward us in perfect unison. And every Shaw’s, O’Cavanaugh and o Galawbryr as well. We hadn’t told anyone yet.

Sloane inhaled slowly. I squeezed her hand — partly to reassure her, partly to keep myself from sprinting into the woods.

“We won’t need input. Vince and I have already chosen the names,” she said.

Eleanor perked up like a cat hearing a can opener. “Wonderful. Dare I hope they’re… traditional? Family‑appropriate?”

A dozen responses flashed through my mind — the strongest being Well, depends on where you sit on naming them Twiggy and Berry — but I bit it back so hard my jaw clicked.

Sloane ignored the bait. “For our son,” she said, “we chose Elias.”

A warm ripple went through the Shaw side — nods, smiles, murmured approval. On the Hartwell side, Eleanor pressed a hand to her chest and whispered, “Oh, that’s lovely,” sounding surprised and relieved, as if she had expected the worst.

“And for our daughter,” Sloane continued, “we chose Elise.”

The reaction was instant.

Esmee gasped. Grandpa Connell grinned. Dad murmured, “Perfect,” under his breath. “I love it!” Mom mumbled.

The Hartwells, however, froze.

Eleanor blinked rapidly, her face brightening with unmistakable, barely contained delight. “Elise,” she repeated, her voice going soft and breathy. “Why… that’s so close to—”

She stopped herself, but not before the shoe dropped even for me, that the witch had expected us to name our sweet baby girl after her. YUCK! Blair’s lips twitched. Paul stared at the ground like he wished it would swallow him. Sloane’s expression didn’t change, but her smile sharpened by a millimeter.

“Elise is a name I’ve always loved,” she said lightly.

“Of course you have, honey. What about middle names?”

“No middle names.” Sloane said with firm determination.

Eleanor’s smile faltered — just a hair — as she recalibrated.

Blair stepped in quickly, her voice warm. “It’s beautiful. Truly.”

For a moment, everything was peaceful.

Then Eleanor inhaled sharply, as if remembering her true purpose on this earth. “And… the last name?” she asked, far too casually. “Since you STILL aren’t married — unless there are new plans you’re meaning to reveal today? Are there?”

The air tightened.

Sloane’s spine straightened. My wolf bristled. Blair’s eyebrows shot up. Evan looked like he wanted to crawl under the BMW. That much pushiness was uncomfortable even for the golden boy.

Sloane didn’t flinch. “Their last name,” she said, “will be Shaw. Whether or not we decide to get married.”

Silence.

Eleanor’s mouth opened, closed, opened again — a goldfish rebooting. Paul blinked rapidly. Blair looked between us, impressed. Even Evan looked startled.

Meanwhile, the Shaw side lit up like someone had plugged them into a generator.

Dad slapped my back hard enough to rattle my ribs. Grandpa Mike let out a triumphant “Ha! Well, it’s a good name, especially since you like traditional so much.”

Sloane squeezed my hand, and for a moment — just a moment — the worlds stopped colliding and simply aligned.

Elias Shaw.
Elise Shaw.

Two babies. One family.

Even if half that family was still trying to figure out why the other half felt the need to arrange tiny bits of food like artwork, rather than just make enough for real hunger.