Page 140 of Feral King

"Julian," I say, "carry me."

He doesn't ask any questions. He just scoops me up in his arms and walks me across the lawn toward the waiting car. Ethan flanks us. Anya has my mother with one hand and is texting Dad the address to the hospital with the other.

"I'm not due for another five weeks," I say into Julian's shoulder.

"Marius has decided otherwise."

"Marius is going to be just like his father."

"God help us all."

Marius Dmitri Volkov is born at 11:47 p.m. the night of our wedding. He’s five pounds, eleven ounces, and perfectly healthy despite his early arrival.

He has my hair and Julian’s nose. He cried when he entered the world but quieted once they placed him on my chest and he heard my voice. Julian sits beside my bed; his finger gripped within his son’s tiny fist.

“He’s so small,” Julian whispers.

“He’s perfect.”

“Perfect and small. God, what if I drop him?”

“You won’t drop him.”

“I might. It’s a legitimate concern.”

“Julian, you shielded me from gunfire with your own body. You won’t drop him.”

“That was different. He’s…smaller.”

I laugh through the tears. Mama is at the door with the camera, Dad right behind her, still in his Saints cap, wiping away tears. Elena and Anya are in the corner with their arms around one another. Ethan is there, too, hisprofessional composure intact but with an unmistakable softness in his eyes.

Julian kisses his son’s forehead, then mine.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you.”

“Both of you. Endlessly.”

Outside the window, the sky is dark and full of stars.

And in a private room on the maternity floor, something wonderful and new begins.

EPILOGUE II

LYRA

“Mama.Mama! Look.”

“I’m looking, baby.”

“It’s a purple fish.”

“Oh. That’s my favorite kind of fish.”

Marius beams up at me from the plush rug in my office. He’s a little over two now, his curls the color of my hair, his eyes looking more and more like his father’s by the day. He’s holding up a crayon drawing that could be a fish or a small, purple submarine. Either is excellent.

He goes back to drawing with the focused intensity of someone who’s expecting his art to be displayed. And he’s right—it will be.