Page 190 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

We held her between, until her breathing eased, until the skylight darkened above us and the city glittered beneath the rain.

Then Mary shifted slightly and frowned. “Either that was very impressive, you came without me realizing, or my waters just broke.”

Hudson lifted his head. I looked down, and Mary blinked at us.

“I believe,” she said calmly, “the babies have accepted your eviction notice.”

The next day, the babies still hadn’t arrived, and Mary was less calm about that.

“I rescind all eviction notices,” she said from the hospital bed, hair damp at her temples, cheeks flushed, one hand gripping mine and the other gripping Hudson’s after another contraction. “They can stay in there.”

Hudson brushed her hair back. “You’re doing beautifully.”

“I’m doing terribly. I’ve been doing terribly for twenty-two hours.”

“You’re in labor,” I said.

The private maternity suite overlooked a garden bright with sunshine. Maeve had been in and out all day. Presley had sent a message that said, You are a goddess and also allowed to swear. Artem had arranged enough security that the hospital probably counted as an embassy now.

Still, the babies hadn’t come.

Labor had started, stopped, started again, then settled into a stubborn pattern that made the doctor thoughtful and made every alpha in the room quietly lose years off his life.

Dr. Sanders stood near the foot of the bed, calm-eyed and kind.

“Mary,” she said, “you’ve done very well. Baby A is tolerating labor, but progress has slowed. We may need to consider taking you into surgery if things don’t change soon.”

Mary froze, and the bond tightened with her fear. I felt it in my chest.

Hudson did too, and he leaned close, his mouth at her temple. “We’re here.”

“I know.” Her voice shook.

I kissed her knuckles. “Whatever happens, we’re here with you.”

Mary closed her eyes as the monitor filled the room with one heartbeat, then another.

Hudson whispered something to her too low for anyone else to hear. Then he began to purr against her.

I held my hand over my chest as love came crashing through to me so hard I could barely stand. A purr escaped my lips.

Mary’s grip changed, and her eyes opened. “I need to push.”

Dr. Sanders stepped closer. “Mary, we need to take you into the theater.”

“I need to push,” she hissed and then looked at me, then Hudson, eyes wide and suddenly clear. “Now. I mean now.”

Everything moved. The bed shifted. Nurses came in and out. The sound of Hudson and me never stopped.

Maeve appeared at the door, saw the room, and stopped with both hands over her mouth. Presley was suddenly on speaker because Maeve had apparently decided remote moral support counted as medical assistance.

“Push like you mean it, love!” Presley shouted through the phone.

“Who called her?” Mary demanded.

“Me,” Maeve said. “She’s good in a crisis.”

“I’m having babies. It’s not a good time.”