Page 173 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

Mac climbed onto the bed beside me. “Babies don’t talk when they’re inside you.”

“You made up for that when you came out.”

He grinned. “Mama said I’m a good talker.”

“As a compliment?”

“Yes, she said I could be a politician one day.”

“Mmm.”

My phone sat on the bedside table where I had left it face down. Hudson had called that morning. Lincoln had sent one message.

Hudson: We are here when you are ready.

I read it four times and then put the phone down like it was hot.

Now they were downstairs, not at the gates, forcing or demanding, but inside because I had said the gates could open.

The bruise in my chest shifted.

I thought of the half second and of Hudson’s face when Damien said disgusting.

Mac leaned against my arm. “Are you going downstairs?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mama said not to ask you too many questions because you’re having feelings.”

I bit my lip and shook my head. “Your mama is very wise and also very rude.”

“Yes, she always says she is the wise one in the family.”

“And the most humble.”

Mila slid off the chair with alarming speed.

I jolted. “Careful.”

She landed on her bottom, blinked once, then laughed.

Mac laughed. “She does that.”

“Her approach to gravity is bold.”

Mila pushed her hands on the floor and stood before walking to one of the paintings. She patted the bottom corner before I could stop her. Her fingers came away with a faint smear of violet.

“Oh no.” She looked at her hand, then at me. Then like an artist signing a masterpiece, she pressed her purple fingers to the blank lower edge of the canvas.

Mac gasped. “Mila.”

I stared at the print, small and messy and perfect. And for some reason, that was what made me cry. The tears didn’t come loudly or dramatically. They simply slipped down while Mila stared at me as if adults were strange creatures.

Mac put his biscuit-free hand on my knee. “Should I get Mama?”

I wiped my cheek. “No.”

“Daddy G?”