Chapter 13 · The Boys at Three

Leo was the thinker. Milo was the storm.

At three, they'd developed distinct personalities that made Zaia laugh and cry in equal measure. Leo lined up his toys by color and asked questions about everything—*Why is the sky blue? Why do we have wolves inside us? Why doesn't Daddy live here?* Milo climbed furniture, wrestled with daycare friends, and had a temper that flared hot and faded fast.

They were both wolves. Zaia had felt their first shifts at eighteen months—brief, involuntary, the way young wolves often manifested. She'd guided them through it alone, reading pack texts she'd bought on the black market, consulting a rogue healer in the next town who asked no questions and charged cash.

No pack. No Alpha. No father.

Just her.

"Mama, tell us about Daddy again," Leo said at bedtime. They were in Zaia's bed tonight—both boys, a tangle of limbs and superhero pajamas.

Zaia stroked his hair. "What do you want to know?"

"Does he have a wolf like us?"

"Yes."

"Is he strong?"

Zaia thought of Sebastian—billionaire Alpha, builder of empires, man who'd cast her out in the rain. "Yes, baby. He's very strong.