Bloodmoon – Alpha

The Rusty Anchor was the kind of place where the lights flickered, the floor stuck to your boots, and the bartender didn’t care about your story and didn’t ask questions as long as you tipped.

Perfect for us.

Damon was already there, sitting impossibly straight in a cracked vinyl booth, looking like a male model who’d wandered into the wrong place. Black shirt, black coat, black everything — offsetting his light blond hair and pretty‑boy face. Elegant, quiet, dangerous. A glass of something red sat in front of him that I prayed was wine and not… well… use your imagination. Damon looked my age, acted my age, was my BFF — and was also technically my uncle – and he was a vampire.

Eirwen sat across from him, braid coiled over one shoulder like a silver whip, neon nails tapping the table. She looked like a Gen Z influencer who’d teleported into a biker bar and decided to own it. She was drinking some colorful concoction with an umbrella and an orange slice.

Both looked up when I walked in.

Eirwen pointed at me like I was a crime scene. “THERE HE IS! THE VINCE. VINCENT. VINCENT SHAW. That silent water that is so fucking deep you’ll drown.”

Damon exhaled, long and slow. “I leave you unsupervised for one moment,” he murmured, “and suddenly you have a wife and two children on the way.”

I slid into the booth. “Good to see you too.”

“No,” Eirwen said, slapping the table. “No no no, we are so doing this. We’re roasting you first.”

Damon nodded. “It is tradition.”

I groaned. “You two came to the party. You already roasted me there.”

Eirwen scoffed. “That wasn’t roasting. That was lightly toasting. I was in Louboutin heels, Prada, and our grandmother was watching. I wasn’t about to get my ass Emmy’ed. No offense, Damon.”

“None taken,” Damon said smoothly. “She’s my mom, so if anyone gets it, it’s me and my dad will second it. But we don’t use those words, remember.”

“What words? Mother? Dad? Grandmother? Why? Everyone has those….” Eirwen asked. “It’s just us. Nobody here even knows who the hell we are …”

Damon lifted his glass. “Because Vince married into the normie pool — and yes, we know Sloane is a werewolf, but her family is picture‑book normies. If they ever found out all of us are real, they’d have serial heart attacks, and all of us would have witch‑hunts, vampire stakings, silver bullets hunting parties after the werewolves — the whole circus. So yes, we keep the habit. Avoids slipups.”

I rubbed my face. “Yup. Damon’s right. But you guys didn’t have to come. I thought Mom made that clear. At least that’s what she told me.”

Damon gave me a look. “Vincent. I would not have missed that for the world. For so many reasons. Only some of them involve us genuinely caring about you. The rest was pure curiosity, schadenfreude, and the inability to pass up a chance to watch you squirm. And boy, did you squirm.”

Eirwen cackled. “Man, your in‑laws are something else.”

“I second that,” Damon said. “You’re not worried that might cause problems later? I remember you as a child — there was no hiding you weren’t a regular kid. For one, you found chewing on cables absolutely irresistible, and you dug holes in the yard. Not exactly behavior you can pass off as ‘mortal toddler quirks.’ Why can’t you wolves be more like vampires? We don’t start showing signs until puberty. And you’ll have two of those tiny beasts forthcoming. Your in‑laws are going to want to see them. Maybe watch them. How do you imagine that is going to go over?”

I sighed. “Yeah, I know. Sloane and I are working on that.”

Eirwen leaned forward, braid swinging dangerously. “But seriously, cousin. You went from ‘I don’t know how to talk about my feelings’ and barely making it past one‑night stands to ‘I have a wife and twins’ in the time it takes me to pick a guy worth my time at a club.”

Damon added, “And that is… alarmingly fast.”

Eirwen grinned. “Yup.”

Damon steepled his fingers. “Explain. You’ve been very sparse with details and you’ve missed a lot of our get‑togethers.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, sorry about that. Life’s been busy. As for Sloane and everything with her — it felt right. Her becoming a wolf wasn’t planned, same with getting pregnant, let alone two, but all of that felt out of our hands. The rest feels right though. No regrets. It was fast, unexpected for both of us, but man… I’ve never been this happy.”

Eirwen made a strangled noise. “He’s hopeless. I never thought I’d hear our wolfie howl such sappy tunes.”

Damon sighed. “He’s a Shaw. Hopelessness is hereditary.”

I glared. “Are you two done?”

“No,” they said in perfect unison.

But then Damon’s expression softened — just a fraction. “You’re happy,” he said quietly. “That matters. Congratulations. For real. Not the going‑through‑the‑motions version at your in‑laws. Nice place, by the way. Suburban artificialness at its finest.”

“You got that right. That was Sloane’s sister’s home. Fake is dead on. I’ve got stories.”

Eirwen nodded, smile warm for once. “Sloane looks gorgeous all preggers and in luuuv with our wolfie. And smug. She’s got that inner bitch — I can tell. Just how I like them. I approve.”

I grinned. “What a relief. Would hate to have to break up with the mother of my children when the ink is barely dry on our wedding certificate because my cousin doesn’t like her. Damon, anything to add?”

Damon raised his glass. “Only a toast: To the most chaotic, reckless, Shaw‑coded decision you’ve ever made.”

Eirwen lifted her cocktail. “To my crazy cousin Vince, who skipped the entire relationship arc and went straight to ‘married with twins.’ You nutjob, you.”

I clinked my glass bottle with their glasses.

Yeah. This was home too.

Those two had my back, and I had theirs. Despite the constant bickering and teasing, we were ride‑or‑dies. Always had been.

I took a long gulp of my beer, wiped my mouth, and pointed the bottle at Damon.

“Okay, enough about me. When’s your wedding, D‑Man? And since you’re the oldest one at this table, where are your kids? I mean, we may all be very different, but that part we have in common — heirs to the lineage aren’t optional for any of us. So start pumping out the little bats, buddy. You do remember that only one of the many fun crevices leads to baby-success, right? Do you need detailed instructions on how to get Cerys pregnant? I can draw diagrams. Give you a step‑by‑step playbook.”

Eirwen nearly spit her umbrella drink. “Oh my GOD, yes. Uncle Damon with a baby in his full Enforcer armor – OMG! I’d pay money.”

Damon didn’t even blink. He lifted his glass — a deep, almost‑black Cabernet Sauvignon, because of course he’d find the only decent wine in a dive bar — and took a slow, elegant sip.

Then he set it down, fingertips resting lightly on the stem.

“We are no longer seeing each other.”

Silence.

Eirwen froze mid‑laugh. I stopped breathing.

We both stared at him.

He didn’t offer anything else.

“What do you mean?” we said at the same time.

Damon leaned back casually, meeting our eyes. To anyone else, he’d look unreadable — calm, composed, marble‑smooth. But we knew him too well. He was hurting. Bad.

“I do not know how much clearer I can make it,” he said. “She and I parted ways.”

“Why?” Eirwen demanded.

“Yeah, why?” I echoed. “You two were all over each other. It seemed so real.”

“It was,” Damon said quietly. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?!” Eirwen snapped, bristling — furious that someone had taken her real‑life romance novel and torched it. She talked a big game, but deep down she was a total romantic marshmallow. Which, honestly, explained her love life. She wanted a man who was equal parts storybook hero and walking hormone factory. That guy wasn’t out there. That guy had never been out there. That guy would never be out there.

I figured Damon had gotten closer than any man alive to the leading‑man fantasy she carried around in her head — but even he couldn’t keep up with the script forever. And Eirwen took that about as well as you’d expect.

He was the one with the broken heart, and she was mad at him for it. Vintage Eirwen for ya.

His expression tightened — lips flattening into a line, jaw shifting. He looked down at his hands, moved them once, smoothly, like he was resetting himself.

Then he looked up.

And the expression on his face made my stomach drop.

“The point,” he said, “is that I was right all along.”

“About?” I asked.

“Yeah, about what, D?” Eirwen added. “Don’t make this a gameshow.”

He exhaled, slow and controlled.

“About being hard to love.”

Eirwen stared at him like he’d just spoiled the finale of her favorite show. “Hard to love? Damon, be serious. My mom has fangs and my dad still simps for her daily. You? You’re like the deluxe collector’s‑edition love interest. Don’t rewrite the genre because one girl fumbled.”

She threw her hands up. “Did you even try to win her back, or did you just sit there and take it like a socially bankrupt cryptid? What is wrong with you?! Put some effort into it, Boomer!”

“Hey, Eirwen, dial it down a notch. I don’t think our D‑Man here qualifies as a Boomer. But yeah,” I said, trying to lighten it. “She does have a point. You’re so pretty you almost look enough like a girl for me to agree with her.”

He cracked the faintest almost‑smile and flipped me off.

Then it was gone.

“It’s not that,” he said. “She’s a nurse. She saves lives. And she can’t handle the fact that I… take them.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into deep water.

No drama. No theatrics. Just truth.

And it hurt more because of that.

I looked at Eirwen — who was rarely speechless — but she just stared at me like fix it, wolfboy. Before I could, Damon looked at both of us.

“Quit plotting with your eyes,” he said, tone flat. “It’s for the better. We have more drama brewing on the horizon and I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with relationship troubles now. Cerys is entitled to her opinions. She knew who and what I was. If she realized it’s too much, there’s not much I can do to change it. I can’t stop being a Coven Enforcer, and I wouldn’t even if it were possible.”

“What troubles?” I asked.

“It’s a family thing,” Damon deflected.

Eirwen leaned back, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “Well, good thing we’re all family then. Spit it out or I’ll use magic.”

His eyes glimmered dangerously. “Your magic gimmicks won’t work on me. You know that.”

“Damon…” I said, my tone deepening, almost a growl.

His silver eyes locked onto mine.

“Vincent, I have nothing to tell yet. Just that evidently Caelan has become a loose cannon, as he stumbled on the fact that his suspicions about Rhiannon were everything but — and I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Wait… what now? What suspicions?” Eirwen asked.

“With Creepy Caelan, who knows,” I grumbled. Caelan — Damon’s vampire grandfather, our great‑grandfather — the Commander of the Coven Enforcers. Nothing like Damon or his father. He was the opposite: cold, terrifying, avoided even by other vampires. Rhiannon was his wife — my great‑grandmother — with the same silvery hair and violet eyes as Grandpa Connell.

Damon looked at me, then at Eirwen, then back at me.

“This time there may be something to it,” he said quietly. “Dad and I tracked her last time. Cesare kept Caelan put — too worried it could escalate depending on what we found. Well… we found something that would send Caelan spiraling.”

He paused, took another sip of his wine, as if debating whether to share more.

“Damon!” My voice came out almost a growl.

He set down his glass. Looked up at me.

“We followed her to Innisgreen. To some strange place where she met with a… with… a… guy.”

Eirwen’s eyes widened. “Oh no. Did they… you know…?”

“I don’t know,” Damon said. “They went into a building and we couldn’t follow.”

“Why not? I thought nothing stops you guys.”

“It was a fae palace.”

The words hit like a dropped anvil.

In any normal context, it would’ve sounded ridiculous. But for us — for occult bloodlines, for Enforcers, for anyone with even a shred of sense — it meant danger, politics, ancient grudges, old magic, and no good outcomes.

Eirwen’s braid slid off her shoulder as she leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh… shit.”

“Yes, oh shit indeed. And I have a feeling that by the time we figure out the full scope, we’ll be knee‑deep in it too.” Damon’s voice went flat, final. “I promise I’ll tell you when there’s something to tell.”

That was the door closing. Firmly.

I took the hint — along with a long drink of my beer — then pointed the bottle at Eirwen.

“Okay, enough doom and gloom. Your turn. When are you ever gonna do something of substance in the dating department?”

“Yeah,” Damon added dryly, swirling his wine. “Get serious about a guy. Maybe start thinking about making some little mages. The whole lineage pressure applies to you as well. We’re all the only heir to our respective lineages. So?”

Eirwen’s jaw dropped. “Guys, I am nineteen. Nineteen. Touch some grass. I’m barely old enough to rent a car in some states. Besides, my dad would spontaneously combust if I brought anyone home. For me to even attempt that, the guy would have to be, like, myth‑tier special. Those are rarer than phoenix feathers.”

She tossed her hair, indignant. “So for the next decade? I’m gonna have fun, commit zero emotional labor, and disappoint every ancestor watching from the astral plane. That’s my plan.”

“Yikes,” I said. “And you really think daddy Gwydion is gonna be cool with all that? I don’t know him well, but… yeah, no. Doubt that.”

“Yeah,” Damon murmured. “We’ve met your ‘fun.’ Pretty boys who struggle to count to three.”

“HEY!” she snapped.

I pointed my bottle at her. “He’s being generous. Some of your guys look like they’d lose a staring contest with a doorknob.”

Damon nodded. “Your last one thought Wi‑Fi was a type of elemental.”

I snorted. “One of them tried to charge his phone by holding it up to the sun.”

Damon lifted a finger. “And the one before that asked if a restaurant menu came with pictures because ‘reading is kinda mid.’”

Eirwen gasped. “He was SWEET.”

“He was SWEET‑AND‑LOW,” I said, snorting. “Zero calories, zero substance.”

Damon didn’t stop piling on, laughing now. “Your type is basically: pretty face, empty attic.”

I shrugged. “If dumb guys were a sport, you’d be the Olympic coach.”

Damon went in for the kill. “Honestly, Eirwen, you don’t date men. You collect limited‑edition himbo NFTs.”

“OH MY GOD—!” I gasped for air at this point, while Eirwen looked ready to set both of us ablaze and likely would have, had she not been trying so hard not to laugh.

We were mid‑roast when Damon’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen. His whole posture shifted — clipped, professional, Enforcer‑mode.

He answered. Short responses. Tight tone. Then he hung up, pulled out his wallet, and placed enough cash on the table to cover all three tabs.

“I have to leave.”

“Oh come on, we just got started—” Eirwen complained.

Damon leaned in, kissed her cheek, and whispered against her ear, voice low and dangerous, flashing his fangs on purpose:

“Enforcer business.”

He winked at me, then slid out of the booth and disappeared into the night like the dramatic bastard he was.

I shook my head, amused.

Then my phone rang.

“Oh COME ON NOW!” Eirwen groaned. “Imma gonna sink your damn phone into the toilet! We’re supposed to be catching up, not talk on phones to other people!”

“It’s the wife,” I said, smirking. “You know I gotta take it. Whenever you get married, you’ll remember this and think ‘ahhh, now I get it’”

I answered casually. “Hey baby, what’s up?”

My smile vanished. My blood ran cold. I shot to my feet so fast the table rattled.

“Shit! I’ll be right there!”

I didn’t even hang up before turning to Eirwen.

“She went into labor!”

Eirwen launched herself out of the booth. “I’m coming!”

And just like that — the night exploded.

I didn’t remember leaving the bar. One second I was shouting that Sloane was in labor, the next I was practically sprinting across the parking lot toward my truck.

Eirwen grabbed my sleeve and yanked me backward so hard I nearly fell.

“NOT the rust bucket! You wanna arrive at some point, don’t you?!” she barked, dragging me toward the opposite row of cars. “Mine is faster!”

“Gimme the keys!”

“It’s MY car!”

“I know how you drive, Eirwen! If you drive we will NEVER arrive!”

She groaned dramatically. “Fiiine!”

She dug into her tiny glittery purse, pulled out a key fob, and tossed it at me.

I caught it mid‑air and stared at the car she was dragging me toward — a low, sleek, midnight‑blue Aston Martin Vantage that looked like it ate lesser vehicles for breakfast. The kind of machine only a spoiled mage girl with unlimited allowance and zero impulse control would own.

I yanked open the passenger door for her — manners didn’t die just because my wife was in labor — then sprinted around the hood and folded myself into the impossibly tight driver’s seat.

The engine roared to life like a beast waking up.

The torque slammed us forward.

Eirwen shrieked, grabbing the door handle. “OH MY GOD, YOU DRIVE LIKE A MANIAC!”

“YOU SAID IT WAS FASTER!”

“I DIDN’T MEAN LAUNCH US INTO SPACE, VINCE!”

I had never driven this fast or this recklessly in my life — not even been this reckless during full‑moon runs — but adrenaline made everything sharp, focused, tunnel‑visioned. Plus, when would a man like me ever get to drive a car like this again. It was a nice level up from my old work truck.

We made it to the hospital in record time.

I barely threw the car into park before I was out and running.

Mom was waiting in the lobby, pacing like a caged lioness. The moment she saw me, she grabbed my arm and hauled me toward the maternity wing.

“Come on, come on, come on—”

A nurse intercepted us, shoved scrubs into my hands, and dragged me into a side room.

“Change. Now.”

I barely got the shirt over my head before she was pushing me toward the delivery room.

Eirwen stayed behind with my mom, and the others, I saw people, but honestly couldn’t give you an accurate line up of who was already there and who would arrive later, all I remember was both of them vibrating with nerves.

As I stepped into the labor room, I heard Eleanor’s voice first — shrill, offended, dramatic:

“Why does HE get to go in and not ME?! I am her MOTHER!”

A nurse shut the door in her face.

Then I heard my wife.

Sloane’s cry cut through everything — raw, pained, terrified.

My heart nearly stopped.

I rushed to her side, grabbed her hands, kissed her knuckles, her forehead, anything I could reach.

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

She was drenched in sweat, hair plastered to her temples, eyes wild with pain and fear.

Twin labor wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t forgiving.

Her contractions were coming hard and fast — the kind that made her whole body arch, the kind that stole her breath, the kind that made her grip my hand so tightly I felt bones shift.

The room was a blur of nurses, monitors, shouted instructions.

Twin A was low. Twin B was stubborn. Her body was doing the work of two births at once.

She sobbed through another contraction, voice breaking.

“Vincent— it hurts— it hurts— I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” I whispered, forehead pressed to hers. “You’re the strongest person I know. You can do this. I’m right here.”

Another contraction hit like a wave crashing over her.

She screamed — not loud, but deep, primal, the kind of sound that ripped straight through my chest.

I held her tighter.

I would’ve taken every ounce of pain from her if I could.

But all I could do was stay. Hold her. Anchor her. Love her through it.

And then—

“Okay, Sloane, we’re crowning!” the doctor called. “Push!”

She cried out, gripping my hand like she was drowning.

I kissed her forehead. “You’ve got this. Come on, baby. Bring him home.”

She pushed — body shaking, breath ragged, tears streaming.

And then—

A cry. Sharp. New. Alive.

The doctor lifted a tiny, wriggling, furious little boy into the air.

“It’s a boy!”

My knees nearly buckled.

Elias Shaw. My son.
I was a father now.
Holy shit!

They placed him briefly on Sloane’s chest — her sob turned into a laugh, then another sob — before the nurses whisked him to the warmer.

But there was no time to breathe.

“Okay, Sloane — Twin B is transverse. We need to turn her.”

I didn’t know what that meant, nor did I give a damn.

Sloane screamed again as the doctor worked, her body twisting with the contraction.

I held her face in my hands. “Look at me. Just me. You’re doing so good. You’re almost there.”

She nodded weakly, tears streaking down her cheeks.

“One more push!” the doctor called.

She pushed — a sound tearing out of her that I will never forget.

And then—

Another cry. Higher. Softer. But strong.

“And a girl!”

Elise Shaw.

My daughter.
I was a father of two.
WOW!

They placed her on Sloane’s chest, tiny fists waving, face scrunched and furious at the world.

Sloane sobbed, laughing and crying at the same time, her hands trembling as she touched both babies.

I kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips.

“You did it,” I whispered. “You did it, baby. They’re perfect. We’re parents now. Holy crap.”

And for the first time in my life — I felt my heart break open in the best possible way.

Recovery

The recovery room looked like someone had detonated a florist’s shop inside it. Bouquets lined every surface—roses, lilies, wildflowers, flowers I couldn’t tell you the name of, even a ridiculous wolf‑shaped arrangement that could only have come from Grandpa Mike. The air was thick with petals and antiseptic.

Sloane lay propped up in the hospital bed, exhausted but glowing, her hair damp and messy, her cheeks flushed. She had both babies tucked against her chest—Elias on her left, Elise on her right. Elias was already frowning like he disapproved of the lighting. Elise made soft squeaks, her tiny fists curled against Sloane’s gown.

I stood beside them in a daze, scrubs half‑tucked, hair a disaster, hands still trembling. I felt like I’d been hit by a truck made entirely of emotions.

My family had filled the room the moment the nurses allowed it.

Mom—Jaymie—was crying quietly, the good kind of crying, the kind she tried to hide behind her hands. The kind that said she never expected this day to ever come, yet, here it was now. Dad had one arm around her shoulders and the other hand gripping mine so tightly it almost hurt. Grandpa Mike stood at the foot of the bed, chest puffed out like he’d personally delivered the twins himself. He was thrilled to see his genes repeated again. Maybe one day I would stand there and look at my grandkids being born and know how that felt.

Esmee stood beside him, elegant as ever, arms crossed, expression unreadable. She gave Sloane a curt nod—her version of approval—then muttered something about “airflow” and “crowding” and slipped out of the room. Mike followed her, muttering something about checking on her, though I suspected he just didn’t want her wandering the hospital alone. She didn’t like kids at all, so this was the highest of all feelings to be expected from her.

Connell and Emmy, my vampire grandparents, arrived with Damon not long after. Connell looked proud in that quiet, steady way of his, and Emmy leaned into him, smiling warmly at the babies. Damon lingered near the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable but eyes soft—his version of emotional. Those two had raised three kids and were absolutely taking a trip down memory lane looking at mine now. Their great-grandchildren. Damon had given me the deepest insights in being an immortal vampire so far and the fact that you had forever didn’t take away the aww of meeting the next generation, no matter how far down the line.

Eirwen sat perched on a chair near the bed, braid draped over her shoulder, mascara smudged from crying even though she’d deny it to her grave. Her parents—Fiona and Gwydion—had just stepped out to give us space, leaving her vibrating with excitement like she might explode into sparkles at any moment. Looking at her staring in such awe at my children and could absolutely see her as a mother one day. Not too soon. She was still very immature and had a lot of growing up to do first. But despite her fiery nature and big mouth, I knew she had a huge heart of gold.

Mom finally broke the hush that had settled over the room.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered to Sloane, brushing her hair back. “You did so well. They’re beautiful.”

Sloane smiled weakly. “Thank you.”

Dad squeezed my shoulder. “You holding up, son?”

I laughed—shaky, breathless. “I… I don’t know. I think so. Maybe? I feel like I’m floating. Like this is a dream.”

Eirwen sniffed loudly. “They’re so tiny. And cute. And tiny. And cute.”

Damon smirked. “Very insightful.”

She flipped him off without looking away from the babies.

Connell stepped closer, voice soft. “Elise looks like Sloane.”

“And Elias looks like you, Vince-y, I remember you once were so tiny. Hard to believe now, but I remember it,” Emmy added.

My throat tightened. I leaned down, kissed Sloane’s forehead, then kissed each baby’s head—Elias first, then Elise.

“I love you,” I whispered. “All three of you.”

Behind me, Eirwen whispered, “Oh my god, he’s gonna cry.”

“I am not,” I muttered.

“You are,” she insisted.

“Shut up.”

But she was right.

I was.

And I didn’t care.

The room had finally quieted. The babies slept in soft, hiccupping breaths against Sloane’s chest, and she drifted in and out of that hazy, post‑labor exhaustion that made her look both fragile and invincible at once. I was glad that all that pain hadn’t made her inner wolf surface. Considering that, she had done exceedingly well. It had been a genuine worry of mine.

The rest of the family lingered, hovering, whispering, staring like they’d never seen newborns before.

Dad finally stepped forward, clapped his hands once, and spoke in the tone that made grown wolves straighten their spines.

“Alright, everyone. This was wonderful. Truly. But now let’s give them space and let poor Sloane get some much‑needed rest.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

People started moving immediately.

Jaymie kissed Sloane’s forehead, then mine. Connell squeezed my shoulder. Emmy whispered something about bringing food tomorrow.

Eirwen stepped toward me, holding out her hand. When I only stared at her, confused, she shoved both hands into my pockets until I stopped her. Cousin or not, that was a bit too familiar.

“I let you drive her, but she wasn’t a baby‑shower gift!”

I sighed and dug out her car keys. Guess I’d be catching a ride with someone. As if he’d read my mind, Damon appeared, holding out his hand.

“What do you want?”

“Truck keys.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to rob a bank and need a getaway vehicle. What do you think why? I’ll bring your truck here so you can get home.”

“Oh.” I dug out those keys too and was about to hand them over, then paused, pulling back just as he reached for them.

“Wait. Can you even drive? I’ve never seen you drive.”

His expression flattened with annoyance — and then his vampire speed relieved me of my keys before I could blink. “Guess we’ll find out, wolfie,” he snarled, then smirked, winking. “Relax, wolfman. I gotchu.”

Dad lingered as the last of them stepped into the hallway.

He looked at Sloane first — asleep now, both babies tucked safely against her — then at me.

He stepped close, clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaned in just enough that only I could hear him.

“Get some rest too, son,” he murmured. “And get the emotional out of your system now, ’cause an Alpha doesn’t cry.”

He winked.

A real, warm, fatherly wink.

Then he turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

The words hit me a second later.

An Alpha doesn’t cry.

Not a joke. Not a tease. A reminder.

A warning. A promise. A passing of the torch.

I looked at Sloane — my wife — and at Elias and Elise — my children — and felt something shift deep in my chest.

I wasn’t just a son anymore. I wasn’t just a mate. I wasn’t just a wolf.

I was next.

Alpha wasn’t a title waiting in the distance. It was coming for me. Soon.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel afraid.

I felt ready.

Foreshadowing

I must have fallen asleep without meaning to.

One moment I was watching Sloane breathe, both babies curled against her chest, the next my neck ached, my lower back screamed, and my face was mashed into the pillow beside hers. My butt was numb from the visitor chair, my arm draped protectively across her waist.

I blinked awake, groggy and disoriented.

Then I looked at her chest.

Empty.

Both babies were gone.

My heart stopped. I shot upright so fast the chair screeched across the floor.

“Where—? Where the hell—?!”

I spun around, panic rising like a tidal wave—

And nearly jumped out of my skin.

Damon was standing in the corner of the room, arms crossed, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. Like he’d been carved out of shadow.

“Don’t disturb her,” he said quietly, nodding toward Sloane.

My pulse hammered. “Where are the babies?!”

“The nurse came by and took them to the newborn station,” he said calmly. “They’re fine.”

I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to force my heart back into my ribcage. “Jesus, Damon—where the heck did you come from? How long have you been standing there?”

He shrugged one elegant shoulder. “A while. You know time is meaningless to us.”

I groaned, stretching, every muscle in my body protesting. “Could you maybe… make noise next time?”

“No,” he said simply.

I rubbed my face. “You damn vamps with your sneakiness BS always.”

Damon pushed off the wall. “Yup. Come on. Let’s get you some breakfast and coffee. You look like you could use it.”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

My stomach immediately betrayed me with a roar loud enough to echo.

Damon raised an eyebrow. “Mm-mmh,”

I sighed, glanced at Sloane—still asleep, peaceful—and nodded.

We slipped out quietly.

The hallway was dim, early‑morning quiet, the kind of hush hospitals only have before visiting hours begin. As we passed the newborn station, Damon slowed and pointed.

There they were.

Elias and Elise, side by side in their little bassinets, swaddled like burritos, tiny faces scrunched in identical expressions of newborn indignation.

I stopped. Couldn’t help it.

Damon stood beside me, hands in his pockets.

“Nice work, Vince,” he said softly. “They’re gorgeous. I can’t help feeling proud and jealous in equal measures.”

I swallowed hard. “I still can’t believe it’s real. It all happened so fast. And we’re still not done with the express lane. Dad hinted at me becoming Alpha soon. Man… first nothing, then everything all at once.”

“Congrats,” Damon said. “You deserve it. You’ll make a great Alpha.”

I snorted. “Thanks. I appreciate the kudos. But no offense—what would you know about any of that?”

“About wolves? Not much.” He smirked. “But I can tell a good leader when I see one. I saw you at the party with Sloane’s family. You handled yourself well, despite your mother‑in‑law poking you like a lab rat. And your father told me how you handled those intruders building that resort in your woods. He said he let you take point and you excelled.” Damon paused. “And you managed to use it to meet your forever after and you made Nathan a grandfather. A two‑fer. Impressive, you overachiever, you.”

I huffed a laugh. “Thanks. Can’t really take much credit for fate having a strange sense of timing and humor, but I’ll take it.” And I meant it.

He bought breakfast—the full spread: eggs, bacon, toast, waffles, a pot of coffee, orange juice, yogurt, cereal. I inhaled it like a starving animal.

Halfway through my second waffle, Damon set his cup down and watched me drown it in butter and syrup.

“Remember what I told you and Eirwen last night? About Rhiannon?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled around a bite, washing it down with juice.

“You want the long or short version?”

I leaned back, rubbing my eyes. “Normally I love your storytelling, but I don’t think my brain is running at full capacity. And what about Eirwen?”

“Eirwen is young and impulsive, and her father is still not an ally of ours—merely a cease‑fire, a truce,” he said. “I love her, I trust her with my life, I trust her mother, my sister, but not Gwydion. So this may be… let’s say… above her paygrade.”

“That sounds… concerning.”

Damon took a slow sip of his coffee—black, of course—then set the mug down with a soft click.

“That’s one word for it.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping.

“Look, Vince. What I’m going to tell you now stays between us. For now. I will have to be the one to tell the others. Okay?”

I straightened. Damon wasn’t dramatic. If he said this was serious, it was serious.

“Copy that.”

He nodded once.

“Dad—Connell,” he corrected, slipping into Enforcer mode. “Connell and I went back. Rhiannon showed up. This time we got closer. She’s… close to the man. Very familiar. But they didn’t kiss. Nor anything more. We were certain it wasn’t an affair.”

“So that’s good, right?” I asked.

“In a way, yes. Though it may be hard to comprehend for most of us, Dad and I never had any doubt that she loves Grandfather Caelan. So while it was of course a possibility, we both always expected the truth to lie deeper. And we were right.”

He paused, jaw tightening. I knew this wasn’t going to end with anything good.

“When she left, we intercepted and confronted her. Nothing like interrogating your own beloved grandmother who has never once hurt me. I can only imagine how Dad… how Connell felt pushing his own mother into a full confession. But we needed clarity, as we also knew Caelan was suspicious—and you know as well as I do, he isn’t one to let things go. Which is why Cesare had us get to the bottom of it.”

He looked away for a moment, silver eyes shadowed.

I didn’t push. Didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

He exhaled slowly.

“Vince… Rhiannon isn’t who we thought she was. Not entirely.”

My stomach tightened.