Chapter 9

— Extra: The Pup Who Couldn't Keep a Secret —

The first time Ethan Blackwood had seen Theo up close, he'd known.

It was that Monday at the Academy gate. The pup had come running with his yellow cap half over his eyes, backpack bouncing, shoes too big, and he had tackled Ethan at the knees before Milo could stop him.

Ethan had gone down on one knee. He had caught the small shoulders in his hands, steadying him. The pup had looked up.

Black eyes. Round pupils, still childish, still soft. A little widow's peak at the hairline. A stubborn set to the small jaw. A faint downy line along the arm that every pure Alpha pup in the Blackwood line had been born with — the mark of a strong-blooded wolf. Theo had all of it.

The Blackwood line bred true. Ethan had known since the mirror in Room 1001. Since the silver burn scar under his hand. But knowing and seeing are not the same, and seeing his son at a preschool gate with juice on his chin had almost undone him.

The pup had climbed up on Ethan's knee that morning in the café without being asked. He had taken a Blackwood pancake off a Blackwood fork, chewing solemnly, studying the man across from him with a focus that was not four years old.

"Fry Uncle," Theo had said eventually, "are you Daddy's friend?"

"I'm hoping so, pup."

"Oh." Theo had thought about this. He'd taken another bite. Syrup had run down his chin. He had not wiped it. "Daddy doesn't have a lot of friends."

"No?"

"Just Uncle Caleb. And me."

"That's a short list, pup."

"Daddy says the list is fine."

"Daddy might be wrong about that."

Theo had considered this possibility with the gravity only a very small child can manage.

"Did Mommy send you?" he'd asked. "To find us?"

Ethan had stilled. He had set the knife down on the table very slowly.

"Who's Mommy, pup?"

Theo had blinked. He had shaken his head, solemn.

"Pup doesn't have a Mommy. Pup is Daddy's."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Just Daddy's?"

"Yes." Then, chewing, very matter-of-fact: "Daddy says at night, 'Little bunny, ten months you were in me, I only love you.' Daddy says it every night."

Ethan had not moved.

He did not move because if he moved he was going to shatter something. He was going to put his forehead on the table and he was going to make a sound no grown Alpha should make in a public café. So he had sat very still. He had watched his son eat pancakes. He had committed the shape of the round cheeks and the stubborn brow and the syrup-sticky chin to memory. He had taken the napkin, gently, and he had wiped the syrup away himself.

Ten months. I only love you.

He had kept his voice even. "Pup. Does Daddy sing it the same way every night?"

"Yes," Theo had said. "Then he kisses my ear. Then he says good dreams. Then I go to sleep."

"Good dreams," Ethan had repeated, quietly. To nobody.

"Yes."

The waitress had come over then and asked if the little gentleman would like more juice. Theo had nodded emphatically. The moment had passed. Ethan had given the waitress a smile that did not quite work. He had paid for the pancakes. He had picked his son up and carried him out to the lobby so Milo could find them in the window from the street.

He had not said a word, after, about the little bunny or the ten months. He had not needed to. He had known already. The pup had simply made it a thing that could not be unsaid.

Later that afternoon, in Room 1001, when Milo had whispered let me go, Ethan had said no. He had meant it in a dozen different ways. He had meant: I have just found out that you carried my pup for ten months alone. I have just found out that you sing to him about it every night. I have just found out that my son has a bedtime ritual that tells the whole story back to me in a nursery rhyme. I have just found out what I missed.

He would not say any of that out loud to Milo, yet. Milo would only flinch. Milo was still running in his head even while pinned to a mattress. Milo needed time.

Ethan had time.

He was an Alpha. Blackwood Pack was patient. Blackwood Pack was very patient. And the pup — the small solemn pup with the syrup on his chin — had already done the one thing Milo had tried for four years to prevent.

He had told the truth.

Ten months. I only love you.

Ethan was going to spend the rest of his life earning the right to stand next to a man who had said that to their son, every night, for four years, in a country that wasn't his own.

He would start with bringing them home.

Little bunnies, both of them. His.

— End —