Page 168 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

He folded his arms. “You don’t know she didn’t.”

“I do know.”

“How?”

“Because I know her.”

“You barely know her.”

“I know her better than you did.”

The words landed hard. Damien’s face went white.

“You knew Marli,” I said. “The girl she invented because Mary belonged to a father who wanted to sell her. You knew the version of her who was trying to survive Boston with a false name and a boyfriend she needed, but who kept her uncertain enough to think crumbs were a meal.”

“That’s not fair.”

Lincoln walked to the window and looked out to the street. “No. It isn’t, but it’s true.”

Damien glared at his back. “She lied to me too. She didn’t tell me her real name.”

“She was an omega who lived on the other side of the ocean. An omega, Damien. She could have been kidnapped by traffickers, taken by an alpha who just wanted her, and all you think about is that she called herself Marli. She was fucking scared. Her father tried to sell her. She fled Ireland and then fled England and all you think about is yourself.”

He recoiled, and I didn’t soften.

“You hurt her first. We hurt her after. That’s the difference between us right now, Damien. We know what we did.”

His eyes shone. “I was angry.”

“So was I.”

“You shouted at me.”

“Because you called her disgusting.”

His jaw worked. “She’s pregnant with your babies.”

“Yes.”

“And you expect me to be fine?”

“No,” Lincoln said. “We expect you to be better than cruel.”

Damien looked at him. “You’d choose her.”

The room fell still. A young man we had raised was standing in front of us with abandonment in his eyes, asking us to prove love by making it smaller.

I thought of Mary in the baby shop, crying because no one had called her perfect. Mary in our bed, calling herself Mama. Mary at the cafe, terrified and brave, letting us scent her in public. Mary behind the gates in Surrey, saying no because we had taught her our safety could falter.

I thought of Damien at seven with scraped knees. At twelve pretending not to care. At seventeen eating cereal in the dark after his mother left, and choosing to leave too.

“I won’t choose between you like that,” I said.

“That’s a refusal.”

He wiped his face with the back of his wrist, angry about it. “She got you both. In three days.”

Lincoln went to speak. I raised my hand.