“I’m afraid not, Genni sweetie,” I set both twins back on the ground. “I am willing to bet that the momma froggie wants her baby to come home for dinner.” I shoot a glance to Caz as he wheels my luggage out of the way.
“Why don’t you and Daddy Cazzy go bring the little guy home to the garden, hm?”
“Okaaaay,” she groans, defeated, as she and Caz make their way deeper into the house.
Quentin steps forward to encircle me in his arms for a brief moment.
“Dinner’s almost on the table. Sébastien has been in there with and without the kids half the day preparing for your return feast,” he murmurs against my lips before pulling me in for a deep kiss.
“Better go make sure it doesn’t go to waste then, because if I keep kissing you like this…Mommyisn’t going to have much of an appetite for dinner,” I purr.
Just as quickly as the mood has heated up–we are doused in cold water as a piercing child’s cry erupts from the other room.
Quentin and I round the corner into the kitchen just in time to see Seb scoop up our second youngest, Joan—her head laid against Seb’s broad chest, one arm wrapped up around his neck with her fingers tangled in his long, dark curls, her other thumb stuck into her mouth.
“Look who just came home, eh?” Sébastien gently bounces her—his arm threaded beneath her like a seat as she leans against him—her little strawberry blond curls unruly from lack of brushing, her peridot eyes brimming with tears as she begins to cry again at the sight of me.
“Mama!” she wails, pulling her thumb from her mouth and reaching for me. At two years old, a week away feels like a lifetime; no wonder she’s so upset.
“I know, baby girl!” I cluck my tongue, taking her into my arms from Seb, who leans forward to kiss me in the handoff. “Mama’s home now—just relax, baby,” I comfort her, gently rocking her against me as I take in the sight of the kitchen—almost ready for another one of Sébastien’s fabulous dinners.
In the years since our pack bonded, I’ve put on a bit of weight; impossible not to with Seb’s incredible cooking. All of my mates tell me it only makes my curves more dangerous—my body more soft and pliable under their touch.
“How long until dinner, my love?” I ask Seb—in motion to the living room; the overtired Joan already asleep against my chest as I carry her with me.
“Ready whenever, the kids have already eaten, so if you like, me and the rest of the dad patrol can get the little ones down to bed,” he purrs, carefully taking the sleeping Joan from my arms. I give him a nod and another peck on the lips as Quentin and Caz join Seb in his quest.
Alone, I make my way into the living room and peer out onto the screened-in patio through the large sliding glass doors.
There, looking out over the gardens, the shimmering in-ground pool, the wood and plastic swing set climbing structure and sandbox, is Frank.
In his arms, Benedict—or Benny, our youngest—with his shock of coal black hair, eyes drooping with sleep as Frank sings softly to our baby in his arms.
“From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay, and from Galway to Dublin town, no maid I've seen like the sweet Colleen that I met in the County Down.”
It’s taken years for him to unearth his childhood memories—to be able to interact with them without switching—without completely going to pieces; but now he sings the songs his father sang to him as a baby without a second thought.
I step on soft feet until I’m just behind Frank. I can tell from the bond that he senses me there—that I won’t startle him when Iwind my arms around his waist, resting my head against the side of his shoulder as I press against his back, looking at Benny fast asleep in his arms.
“Well, speak of the devil,” he chuckles, turning over his shoulder to give me a kiss.
“Welcome home, Lucifer.”
