Page 179 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

She hugged me, whispered, “You look gorgeous and terrified,” and then handed me a small packet of ginger sweets as if she had known me all my life.

By the time we sat, the room smelled like succulent meat, roasting vegetables, the scent of the vanilla candle sitting in the middle of the table, and expensive cologne. It also smelled of a mix of alpha and omega scent, which was the strange, layered comfort of the chosen people gathering around a table.

I sat between Hudson and Lincoln.

Mac sat opposite me, between Gregor and Ivan, with Mila in a high chair beside Maeve. Mila had discovered the bread and was treating it as both food and architecture.

“Don’t build on the plate,” Maeve said. “We’re in Mayfair.”

Mila put another piece of bread on top of the first. “Mama, build house.”

“She’s a visionary,” Presley said, taking a bite of a potato.

“She’s banned from construction,” Maeve replied, putting more broccoli in front of her daughter. “Because it tends to get messy, especially if there’s jam on the bread.”

“Jam is evil for building, never dries,” Fritz said, deadpan.

I smiled.

When the dessert menus arrived, Hudson touched my hand under the table.

“What are you up to?” I asked.

“What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“Because I’m touching your hand?”

Lincoln laughed under his breath. “He loves being weird. Or perhaps—.”

Hudson stood, and the room quieted with terrifying speed.

I looked at Maeve, whose eyes were bright.

“Oh no,” I whispered.

“Mary.”

“If this involves public speaking, I’ve suddenly developed a medical condition called muteititus.”

Maeve rolled her eyes. “You mean selective mutism.”

“Whose side are you on?” I whispered.

Hudson cleared his throat. “It involves listening.”

Lincoln stood too, and that was when my lungs forgot the operating procedure.

Both of them were standing beside me. Hudson was controlled and beautiful in a charcoal suit, black shirt and tie, his eyes fixed on me with a tenderness that made the room blur at the edges. Lincoln also wore a suit, his pale gray with a navy shirt that matched my dress.

Hudson took a small velvet box from his pocket. Lincoln took another from his.

“Oh my God,” I said.

Mac gasped. “Is it treasure?”

“Yes,” Presley whispered. “Emotional treasure.”