JAYNAYAH

By the time my belly began to curve beneath my dresses, the pack had adjusted to my pregnancy with the grace of wolves trying to carry eggs in their teeth.

Badly.

Lovingly.

But badly.

For two weeks, no one cooked venison inside the pack house because the smell sent me running for the nearest window with one hand over my mouth and murder in my heart. Mace did not simply ask the kitchen to avoid it. He banished it as if roasted meat had personally insulted his bloodline.

Then, three nights later, I woke him from a dead sleep because I wanted roasted apples.

With honey.

And cream.

And...