Katya
My hips hurt, my stomach hurts, everything hurts as my body stretches. I rock like an old lady, trying to heave myself from the couch, when Mateo calls out to me. Getting to my feet, I start climbing the steps. We need an elevator. My fat ass is not made for stairs, and I don’t want to know how ridiculous I must look whenever I waddle up.
“Babe?” Mateo sings out again.
“I’m coming, hold your horses,” I snap, climbing the next steps.
Honestly, I am genuinely surprised he is calling me up. He has rarely let me on the third level for the last week, using all sorts of excuses, my pregnancy being the most popular one.
We have slept in the guest rooms downstairs for the entire week, too. Partly because I am too tired to climb the stairs all the time, but mainly because upstairs sounded like demolition was going on. It was too loud, and the sudden noises kept startling me.
Mateo is always doing something up there, and Ezra would help when done with pack business. Those two are plotting something, I know they are, but I wish I could find it in me to want to do any detective work. I’m too fat and bloated for that.
As I imagine a pregnant ninja, hiding in the shadows near McDonald’s, I chuckle. God, how I wish I could have the kids’ happy meal right about now. The thought alone makes me salivate.
As I finally manage to get to the top of the stairs, I grip the banister, panting like a heifer. I salute all pregnant women who stair climb daily. It’s utter hell. I don’t think I’ll be able to catch my breath doing the return trip back down.
I am huge. I have just under a month left, but I look way past full term with the twins. Now, I resemble more of a beach ball with my short height and round belly. I am round all over, and gosh, my ankles are sore from swelling, and carting this extra weight is a mammoth task.
Looking around, I smell paint and plaster. Mateo bounces out of a nearby room excitedly. He stands behind me and covers my eyes. He shuffles me toward our room, and I know it’s ours by the faint scent of us in it. But then, he turns me toward where the window is and turns me again.
I am becoming queasy from the turning. The room is square. How many times does he want to turn me? Am I about to bash a piñata?
Mateo presses his lips to my neck in a gentle kiss and removes his hand. I open my eyes to see a door that doesn’t belong in the room. A hole is cut out where the TV originally was, and as I look around I spot it on the wall. It’s right where the headboard used to sit, and the bed is now under the window.
The other side of the wall used to be the room I stayed in when I first came here. I twist the handle and push the door open to reveal the nursery they have made which is now attached to our room.
The room is a soft gray color. It’s neutral and unique. There are white cribs and a nursing chair perched under the window. Ezra made the cribs himself, and on top of the little headboards, he cut the image of a wolf. I didn’t know Ezra was handy with building, but it makes sense when he told me his grandfather on his mother’s side was a carpenter.
The mobiles above each crib, where little wolf and moon figurines hang from them, the wolves are the color of each of ours. However, mine resembles Kora before she gave her life for mine.
On the wall above each crib are their names painted in perfect calligraphy. We were stuck on names for our son. Ezra wanted to honor the Moon Goddess, so we knew our daughter’s middle name would always be Seline, but our daughter’s first name would be Marabella.
It started with her, so it seems fitting the curse ends in her name; she too sacrificed the most for her people, so Marabella Seline Calder-Pierce.
Ezra doesn’t care what we name them, as long as Seline is our daughter’s middle name. Looking at my son’s crib, I turn to Mateo, we haven’t spoken of boys’ names yet.
“Does he know?” I ask Mateo.
From the Moon Goddess’ vision, I knew the boy was Mateo’s carbon copy while our daughter would be Ezra’s, so I am a little shocked to see our son’s name is chosen after Ezra’s bloodline.
Ezra’s grandfather’s name was Eziah, and he was the only man in his family he spoke fondly of. Eziah Mathers was his mother’s father, and his name made werewolf history books for the good he did.
“He will when he gets home,” Mateo chuckles, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his head on my shoulder, his hands rubbing my growing bump.
Moments like these make everything worth it, even the pain of carrying elephant-sized Alpha bloodline babies. Just a minute spent in my mate’s arms feels like a little piece of heaven.
“No middle name?” I ask, and he shrugs.
“Couldn’t think of one,” Mateo says, kissing my cheek. “Figured I would leave it to Ezra,” he decides, pressing his face into my neck.
I nod, more than happy to know that we can easily come to an agreement. However, I have a suggestion, if Ezra says it is ok.
“You like it?” Mateo asks.
“Love it,” I agree when my phone rings from downstairs.
I groan, knowing I will have to waddle down to get it. Why, oh why, can’t I get a moment of silence? A couple of minutes without a phone call or noise. A moment to enjoy with my mate in the nursery of our children?
“You stay. I will get it for you,” Mateo offers, wandering off while I look around the room.