Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
She chuckles, her fingertips grazing over my brows. “As long as you are in my furs every night, that is fine with me.”
“Every night,” I agree. I slide my hand under her bottom and stroke the pale curve of flesh. “No tail here,” I murmur, patting her backside.
Stay-see stills under me. “You…did you remember?”
“Remember what?” I look up at her.
A flash of disappointment crosses her face, but is quickly gone. “Nothing. I guess it’s not important after all.”
“I did remember something earlier,” I tell her. “That you used the word ‘fuck’ when Pacy was being born. And that you did not tell me of this when you shared the story of his birth.”
Her smile widens. “It wasn’t my most ladylike moment. You really remembered that?”
I nod. “I did. I think the memories will come back in time, if you are patient with me.”
“Of course,” she says, and touches my mouth with her soft little fingertips. “You and I are forever.”
I like the sound of that very much. “I agree.”
She gives a contented sigh. “And I wish we could stay right here, like this, forever.”
I squeeze her bottom again. “I would wish that, too, my mate, except you need to make your mate and your son an egg.”
“An egg?” Her brows draw together. Then she sits up so quickly that her head almost bangs into mine. “Oh my god. You saved the eggs?”
“They are frozen and the shells are hard,” I tell her, rolling off of her soft body. I lie on my back and tie my breeches, tucking my cock back into my clothing. “I have two of them for you.”
Her squeal of delight warms me down to my toes.
EPILOGUE
STACY
Two months later
“Da da da da!” Pacy bounces on his hands and knees, tail flicking. Across the room, my mate sits on the floor, cross-legged. He waves his fingers at his son, indicating he should come forward.
“You can do it, Pacy,” Pashov calls out. “Come to Da Da.” He uses the English word—or a bastardized version of it—since Pacy seems to be able to say that easier than the sa-khui ‘father,’ which has a lot of swallowed syllables.
The baby plants one foot on the ground, then the other, his bottom wiggling in the air. Then he stands upright. I stir my egg while it slow roasts on the fire. After endless experimenting, I’ve figured out the best way to cook the frozen dirtbeak eggs: crack open the top and let it scramble in its own shell, occasionally stirring it. It makes a mountain of perfect, delicious scrambled eggs that go amazingly well with a bit of not-potato and is my favorite go-to meal when I’m tired of dried meat. Pashov has taken to eating the eggs, too, but he prefers his as more of an omelet peppered with chunks of meat and roots. They’ve helped save my sanity so far in the brutal season, when there’s plenty to eat, but most of it is dried, smoked meat. The hunters filled our storage coffers as much as possible before the weather got bad, and the women harvested a lot of not-potato, and now we’re just riding out the blizzards above, snug in our little nook in the ground below. I have an entire storage area full of frozen eggs, and we’re all being extremely careful to make them last. We should be good through the brutal season after all, and the men only go out to hunt on the days that it’s not pouring snow. Since most days are so cold that it hurts to breathe and the skies are so dark they look like a bruise, the hunters stay home with us a lot of the time.
And while the food’s a bit monotonous, I don’t mind it because I enjoy having Pashov around all day. He gets to spend quality time with his son—like right now.
Pacy stretches out his little arms and wobbles forward on one foot, then the other.
I hold my breath. “Is he—”
“He has it,” Pashov says proudly, and gestures for Pacy to come forward. “You can do it, little one.”
“Da da!” Pacy says, staggering forward. He only makes it a few steps before he falls into Pashov’s arms, but my mate laughs and catches him, then tosses him into the air as if my son has made the greatest accomplishment ever.
“Did you see that?” Pashov asks me between Pacy’s peals of laughter. “Three steps this time.”
“He’ll be running up and down the streets soon,” I say with pride in my voice. My little son is so smart. I don’t know a lot about babies, but it seems to me he’s always just a little ahead of the other kits in the tribe. Or maybe that’s just my mommy-side speaking. Whatever it is, I’m proud of my clever little Pacy.