Page 36 of The Dragon, the Bear, and Their Sugar Glider Omega

A plastic figurine of a bear.

An old ratty paperback of baby names he’d found at a yard sale.

The candy cane pen from my hoard.

He was complaining of pain and cramping. I quickly realized what was happening. He was going to lay an egg.

I told him exactly what I thought.

His eyes went wide. “I’m laying an egg?”

“That’s what it means when you get contractions.”

“Okay. Yeah. I can handle this. The midwife says I’m healthy. It should come out fine and smooth. It’s just a bit big. But you two have kept me nice and stretched, so—”

I interrupted him. “No talk like that in front of our incoming child.” I shook my finger at him, grinning.

I immediately texted Armel, who had gone to his office for a couple of hours to do paperwork.

Clay’s about to lay an egg. Get home as fast as you can!!!

I sent the text before I realized how funny it looked and sounded. With anyone else, they might think Clay was mad and about to do something bad. Not that Clay ever would do that, but my text could be interpreted by humans that way.

A text response showed up. Our egg?

I quickly replied. Who else’s egg would it be? Do you know something I don’t?

I’m leaving now, Rome. Tell him to hold it for ten minutes. Hopefully the traffic will be sparse this time of day.

I looked at Clay. “Armel is coming.”

“Now?”

“Ten minutes.”

“It feels like it’s coming now. Ten minutes?” His voice went high-pitched. “Really?”

“He went to the office just for paperwork, remember? He’s leaving now.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Can you help me sit up a little straighter? I’ll try to hold it back until he gets here.”

I shoved my phone in my pocket and knelt beside the nest to help him move back. Then I placed more pillows behind him to relieve the pressure on his back.

“That’s good,” he said.

“Do you need anything? Ice chips? A rag to bite down on?”

“I don’t want to bite a rag, Rome.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about egg laying.”

Clay sighed. “Actually, my handsome alpha dragon, ice chips would be wonderful.”

“Coming up immediately for my handsome marsupial omega.”

By the time I got back with the glass of ice, Clay had moved again. He was on his side, his shoulders and head propped by pillows. He had kicked off his light, fuzzy blanket. All he wore was a big T-shirt of Armel’s that comforted him. He had announced it smelled like a pot of honey. A Winnie the Pooh honeypot to be exact. He had put it on two days ago and refused to take it off except to shower. He’d even threatened to name our still-unnamed daughter in his pouch, Honeypot.

Armel and I protested but said we might settle for just Honey.

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