Page 158 of Knotted By my Pack
The girl is already at Cora’s chest, rooting instinctively. Grace guides the boy to her free arm.
Two perfect, furious little creatures. Our daughter with a wild tuft of hair. Our son, red-faced and already trying to lift his head.
Cora collapses back into Julian’s chest, both babies against her skin. “They’re here,” she whispers. “Oh my god. They’re here.”
We don’t speak for a while. There’s only the sound of newborn cries, the soft splash of water, Grace’s quiet movements as she tidies up, and Cora breathing like she just climbed out of the sea and onto land for the first time.
Eventually, Grace helps clean and move Cora to the nest we built in the bedroom—pillows, blankets, a handmade cradle Elias carved after the fire. The babies lie between us, both of them suckling in turns.
Cora is boneless, content, dazed. Julian lies on one side, tracing tiny fingers with his own.
“I know I said I wanted to open a real estate company soon, but I think I like the idea of being a stay-at-home dad,” he says.
Cora, despite being exhausted, lets out a low chuckle.
Elias sits at the foot of the bed, watching like he’s afraid to blink.
I stroke her thigh under the sheets. Not for sex—for connection. This is sacred.
Later, we take shifts. Elias holds the boy against his chest while humming something off-key. Julian rocks the girl by the fireplace. I change diapers and warm bottles. We share everything. The late nights, the feedings, the baths.
Cora never has to do it alone.
Some nights we curl around her, all of us skin to skin, the babies pressed against her stomach. Other nights, she takes one twin while one of us takes the other, sharing the sleep, the weight, the miracles.
We are a pack.
We are a family.
And we are home.
THE END.
