Page 136 of Not Your Ordinary Shifter

But they did. Both of them. They’ve had a patience with me that I’ve never even had with myself. I’ve opened up to them in ways I’ve never opened up to my therapist.

Which reminds me… I kind of need to cancel my appointments with her. After all, even if she wanted to do the teletherapy appointments, what am I going to talk to her about?I can see that going so well. ‘Oh, yes. And today after the guys fucked me, Mat shifted into his alligator form and let me ride on his back naked.’

Yeah, I have no desire to be committed to an asylum any time soon, so I think I will just forgo the therapy for now. I will have to make a promise to check in with her in six months and get a recommendation for someone local to appease her worry.

I hate saying that I don’tneedthe therapy anymore, because I’m not healed. I don’t think there is a way to actually heal from the things I experienced at such a young age. Sadly, that is what dug the final wedge between my mother and I. She never experienced something like the trauma I had, so she just couldn’t understand. Or wasn’t willing to. Either way, the phone call on Christmas seems to be enough to keep her happy.

But I get it now. I thought solitude was the best answer. I thought keeping my distance meant not talking about it, which meant fewer episodes. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Ren and Mat have me talking all the time. As much or as little as I want. Sometimes they ask questions and push me to talk more, while other times they just let me ramble and cry. The night terrors have gotten better too. I guess it’s hard to be terrified when you are always being spooned by two giant hunky bodies.

The two of them create a perfect balance for me. One pushing me harder, and the other lifting me up. One giving me the encouragement I need, and the other giving the tenderness I didn’t know I craved.

I went out into that forest in search of the perfect shot. Somewhere between the frames, I found something even more perfect.

Me.

Epilogue

Ok, Tiff. Bend and lift with the legs, not the back.

My grip is firm and a brace to lift, when a pair of meaty hands snatches the box away from me as if it weighs nothing at all. Which is a lie as it says seventeen pounds right on the packing label. Still, my mouth pops open in shock.

“No lifting!” Mat yells, which he doesn’t do often, but lately, my grumpy gator has been a little on edge. And I am extra pissy, so the combination has just been great. I think we spend more time yelling and growling at each other both in the bed and out of it than we do anything else.

Winging my hands in the air like a crazed chicken, I yell back, “You won’t let me do anything!” In all fairness, I did do painting today. And gardening. And I might have reorganized the kitchen cabinets. For the eleventh time this week. So he has let me do things, I’m just not so great at being told when Ican’tdo things.

Mat’s face turns at least three different shades of red and when Ren pops in to check on us. Mat loses his words completely and just starts gesturing to everything. The box I was attempting to lift, me, the room, my growing belly. I don’t even say anything in my defense.

Logically, I know I am in the wrong here. I just don’t need to be told that. So instead of a lame excuse, I simply glare daggers at both of them.

Too bad I have learned that capybaras are essentially fearless, so my anger doesn’t scare him one bit. I think knowing that makes me just a touch angrier.

“Tiff, I’m with the big guy on this one. No lifting. The doc even said so.” I fling my arms around again. It’s making me feel a bit nuts, but also just a tiny bit better. But then the fucking hormones have me tearing up until I erupt in a fit of sobs. Why? I don’t fucking know, but the terror on Mat’s face is almost enough to turn the sobs into maniacal laughter. Almost.

“Oh, Tiff. Tell you what. Why don’t you help Mat’s ego a bit?” He talks as he does that thing I love where he rubs circles on my lower back. I sniffle a bit but calm a little too so he continues on. “He wants to help, but you are such a strong independent woman that he’s been left feeling a bit helpless. Why don’t you walk around with him and then you can tell him where to put all the boxes from the new shipment?”

“But I want to put everything together.” I know I sound whiny, but these emotions of mine are just all over the place. They say it’s a normal pregnancy thing, but I am totally blaming the shifter genes here.

“As long as it’s not over ten pounds, you got it, baby.”

Oh, he’s good. He’s too fucking good. Ren smiles when he knows he’s gotten me and after plopping a kiss on my forehead, he makes his way back to the kitchen to finish whatever heavenly smell he is creating in there. In all fairness, I think I blacked out when ordering some of the baby furniture because it seems like more arrives every day than I had planned for.

When I look back at Mat, he is rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, which is sending his long locks into a serious mess. I walk over to the bedside chair, snag a brush from thedrawer, and plop down with a curled finger towards him. Like a good boy, he complies, sitting down between my legs so that I can brush his hair before he ends up with some serious knots.

“I’m sorry I yelled.” This time his voice is nearly a whisper. He hates it when I cry. He feels helpless.

“I’m sorry I cried.” He nods a little and I continue to brush. Taking as much comfort in the action as he is. “I’m so very ready to have this baby.” It won’t be long now. If the baby comes when predicted, I only have two weeks left to get everything in order. That thought both excites and terrifies me.

An uncomfortable pinch in my hip has me shifting slightly. The sound of velcro and the scratchy fabric pulls my attention. When I glance down at my leg brace, I try my hardest not to cringe. We all agreed it was the safest option during this last trimester. It still doesn’t make seeing it any less deflating.

Mat must sense something in my body language because I hear his growl, which seems to reignite my irritation from before. I barely manage to resist the urge to bonk him on the head with the brush, just as he opens his mouth to grace me with a rare moment of tenderness that I don’t always get from him.

“You are not less. You could have no legs or arms, and you would still not be less. You are more than anything I could have wished for.”

My eyes tear up again, and I let them fall quietly while I brush Mat’s hair, wondering if our baby will have his soft tresses or if they will be fuzzy like Ren’s. Either way, I know what perfection is like.

It’s messy and loud. It’s give and take. It’s learning and listening.

But most of all, perfection can’t be captured by my lens. Perfection exists in the moment it’s born.

And it looks different for everyone.

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