Howl (Lost Moon: Unravelling Monsters Universe #2)

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

WEST

Silicon Valley, USA, December 1993

I ’m sitting on the couch, parenting, though thankfully it’s been fairly low-effort for the past twenty minutes. A little gremlin has been busy dismantling the Christmas tree that his mother has already redecorated five nights in a row, and I’m quite happy to let him continue his game if it means I get to sit here and read through these reports on land values in relative peace. Cameron, the only real estate agent I trust, faxed them through earlier today with a suggestion that Bronte and I begin diversifying our portfolios a little more. From what I can see, he’s right.

I look up as little feet toddle over to me. Van will be two in January, and I have a lot of mixed feelings about that. Two years have gone by in the blink of an eye, despite the fact that some days have seemed to drag on forever. Two years brings us closer to thirteen, that dreaded age when he’ll have his first shift.

He’s an alpha, like me.

He shouldn’t have been. It shouldn’t have been possible; there was only ever the one case of a parent and child both being alphas in all of known shifter history. Some say it’s the werewolf genes interacting with the shifter side that’s caused it. Others, thanks to Logan’s big mouth, whisper about Van and I being a cursed duo on account of what that pixie had said to me almost three years ago, but I’d killed her before she could finish her sentence.

Bronte and I never speak of it.

“Gnn,” Van says, holding up a green ornament in his chubby hand, grinning like he’s won the lottery. Here in the safety of our own home, we live out of glamour, and Van’s sharp little canine teeth look overly large in his small mouth.

“ Green ,” I say, taking the ornament he’s offering me. His eyes are the same colour as Bronte’s, and they shine with joy. “Thank you.”

He turns around, running back to the artificial tree where it stands in the corner of our living room. The real pine that we purchased at the start of this holiday season had lasted a single day before Bronte had screwed up her nose, asking if the smell was always going to carry that far through the house — all the way to the bedrooms on the third floor — and I’d had to bite my tongue from saying I told you so . We’d gifted it to a local community hall, and ordered a new one the following day.

“Lello,” Van declares, handing me a yellow star.

“ Yellow ,” I repeat.

The game continues, until I’ve amassed a wealth of ornaments next to me on the couch, like a dragon with his hoard.

“Boo.”

“ Blue. Thank you, Son.”

He grins again. It takes so little to please a child at this age. “Dada,” he says, bending his head to press a noisy kiss to my knee, and it makes my heart ache.

“Good boy,” I say, my voice thicker than usual, grateful that he’s too young to pick up on the fact that his dad is getting emotional.

I watch him wander off to pick up one of his toys — a musical ball, the most infuriating fucking toy ever invented — his little body swaying as he performs an extremely uncoordinated dance. I struggle to imagine him as a teenager, or an adult, though Bronte has met him as both and described him to me at length.

I struggle to think that I could ever dislike the kid, but I know how these things go. We’re alphas and we’re cursed.

He’s my boy. He’s my little buddy. I need to remember that, when the time comes. We need to remember that, I snarl at my wolf, who always remains particularly silent when I think about these things.

We need to get along after Van has his first shift.

Frank couldn’t do it, and neither could I. I’m terrified that it’s going to turn out the same way, but then Bronte reminds me of the things she’s seen in our future — adult Van telling her that he’ll “call Dad,” on his phone, or standing beside me at a Christmas function, and it gives me hope that we can be different.

We will be different. We have to be, because I love my son far too much for that to ever change.

With Van asleep for (hopefully) the night, Bronte and I head to the kitchen for a drink.

“So, I got called a trophy wife today.”

I choke on my mouthful of whiskey at Bronte’s words, and she rounds the kitchen island to whack me in the back, using a little more force than necessary. When I’m done clearing my throat, I dare to look at her. She’s got one of her unimpressed faces on, her lips pursed in a way that’s reminiscent of the looks her grandmother always gives me. We have been allowed to return to Lykia to see her parents and brothers, and although the High Witch says she has no interest in seeing Bronte, on our rare visits she always seems to appear at the right moment to have a conversation with her granddaughter, or cuddle her great-grandson.

“Did you let them live?” I ask Bronte now.

“No, I stabbed her to death in the middle of the Happy Baby Dance Studio parking lot.” Her gaze has a dangerous gleam to it, but after a moment she rolls her eyes with a dramatic sigh. “To be fair, it was an attempt at camaraderie by this human woman… She’s Jason Knight’s wife.”

It takes me a moment to place the name. “Ah, that douchebag. The web forum guy.”

“Yeah, him. ”

Bronte and I attended a Christmas function last week hosted by one of our major parts suppliers, and we’d ended up trapped in a conversation with the man, listening to him drone on about emerging web forums as the way of the future. I’m sure they are — technology is improving at an exponential rate, and my company is benefitting from it — but the last thing I want when I’m forced to attend these things is to have someone over-explaining shit to me.

“So she calls herself his trophy wife?” I ask.

Bronte pours herself a glass of red wine. “And thinks of me that way.”

I make a scoffing noise. “They have no idea.”

“They have no idea,” Bronte agrees. “But I guess that’s the way it looks to everyone from the outside.”

I open my arms, and she sighs into me. “I’m sorry,” I murmur in her hair. I know she’s bothered by this kind of thing. She may still be Bronte Maheras to the non-human community, practising her witchcraft for exclusive clientele and aiding me with both pack and inter-pack business, but to the humans she’s Mrs Livingston . “Just remember, you’re the future High Witch. I’m a nobody compared to you; just an accessory on my wife’s arm.”

She huffs, tilting her head to kiss my neck, and I set my glass down on the counter.

“Fuck me,” she whispers, biting down on my earlobe.

She doesn’t need to tell me twice.

Christmas comes and goes, and the damn tree remains standing in the living room. I turn on its lights again as it goes dark, and for the twenty-seventh night in a row, Van plays with the ornaments. We had to switch them out for plastic ones after he started smashing them, and his latest game is booting them across the room like they’re soccer balls. I’m sure human parents would have some sort of rule about no kicking toys inside, but I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing as a father. He seems happy enough, so I just leave him to it.

While Bronte puts him to bed, I sip on my whiskey and stare at the fucking Christmas tree, contemplating the future and whether Bronte’s visions are wrong after all. The reason the tree is still up on the 30 th of December is because we’ve been waiting, anticipating past Bronte’s arrival, both of us growing more antsy over it by the day. In this particular vision she’s seen Van at this age, and seen the Christmas tree here in our house. While at first it was hot and fun to anticipate this time travel where we apparently have sex — something that I’ve never experienced before when Bronte beams in to me from the past — for the last few days I’ve grown more and more anxious.

We’ve made life decisions based on what Bronte’s seen. We’ve relied on them. It’s going to rock our world if we have to change our thinking around them.

“West.”

I turn, hoping it’s her, past Bronte, but it’s just my regular wife. That’s a terrible fucking thing to think — I’m obsessed with my woman, and she’s the same woman even when she comes in from the past — but I need this magic of hers to work. I’ve had a fucking boner every evening at eight o’clock because I already knew that she would be coming here at some point after Van’s bedtime, and all I’ve been able to think about is the sex she’d described.

And yeah, of course we’ve both managed to fuck our frustrations away every night, but this is next level edging. I’m probably already leaking precum in my underwear.

“I’m sorry I’m still just me ,” Bronte says now, her eyes wide and voice snarky.

“I love you ,” I say, recognising the danger I’m in. There’s nothing scarier than a pissed off werewolf witch.

“I just… maybe I was wrong,” she says, scratching at her head, a sure sign that she’s amped up over it. “Maybe my visions don’t work and half my life is a lie.”

“Or maybe we leave the tree up until March because we’re stubborn fucks and we just wait for past you to appear.”

“We’re not leaving the tree up. It’s meant to be bad luck if we leave it up past tomorrow night.”

“Says who? We’re wolves. We don’t even fucking celebrate Christmas.” The only reason we’d thrown up the tree in the first place is because Bronte had seen it, but since then she’s really gotten into the idea of making Christmas special for our kid . She even dressed Van in a miniature Santa suit and took him to the mall for pictures “I still can’t believe you made us start off with the pine tree when you had a vision and we clearly didn’t have that one.”

“I wasn’t focused on the scent of the fucking tree in the corner when I was choking on your dick, Weston!” she snarls, before she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes.

“Practising your yoga?” I tease, and her gold eyes snap open, glaring daggers at me.

“Trying not to lose my shit,” she says, and the wobble in her voice has me switching gears immediately.

“Hey, sweetheart. It’s gonna be fine.”

“What if my vision was wrong? What if they’re all wrong?”

“They’re not. And there’s still tomorrow night.”

She nods, taking another deep breath. “I’m going to go shower, and dress in a fresh pair of my PJs.”

“Alright.”

I watch her go up the stairs, her ass looking perfect as always, even while wearing a set of the same damn PJs she’s been wearing every night since we put the tree up, anticipating. She was braless in the vision, so come sundown every night, she’s been putting on the same outfit, whipping off her bra in the process.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” I mutter, eyeing the Christmas tree again. Normally she isn’t able to place a date on her visions — she can describe my hair colour as a date reference, and the location, but she doesn’t usually know the time of year, and it means we don’t spend our life anticipating it. This is the anomaly, and I’m over it.

I go to pour myself another whiskey when I hear her footsteps approaching again. She’s only been gone a minute, way too quick for a —

“ West. ”

“Sweetheart.” I don’t know how to describe what it feels like, when her past self comes in. It just feels different. I can sense it through the bond. “Come here.”

She practically runs down the stairs, leaping into my open arms, and I kiss her. “Bronte,” I murmur against her ear. “Tell me what’s going on in your world right now.”

She leans into me, hugging me tight. “I’m pregnant.”

“How far along?” I already know the answer — I was there when she passed out — but I find starting this way, in a familiar pattern, calms her down.

“Six months.” She hums in amusement, reaching down to grasp my cock. “You’re happy to see me.”

You wouldn’t believe how fucking happy I am . I consider telling her the date — then we could maybe avoid this mess — but I don’t, because I’m scared it’ll screw things up, break the universe or something like that. This magic isn’t just exciting; it’s scary as fuck.

“I’m always happy to see you, sweetheart, but especially tonight.” Her gold eyes are filled with nervous anticipation.

“You know what’s going to happen here?” She bites her lower lip. Fuck. I think she already has an idea.

“Yeah. I’m gonna take you down the hall, and show you our little munchkin who’s currently sleeping. Then we’re each going to have a drink, and after that I’m gonna fuck you. Repeatedly.”

Her mouth hangs open for a moment, before she bites her lip again. “That’s quite an eventful vision.”

“Yeah, it is, or so I’ve heard. I’ve been looking forward to it. Come on, let’s go see the pup. We have to be quiet — we do not want to wake him.”

I take Bronte’s hand, pulling her down the hall to the daytime nursery. We spend most of our life down here on this level of the house, so often put Van to bed down here, before transferring him upstairs to the room next to ours when we’re ready for bed.

“I think we lucked out with him,” I whisper, pushing the door open and gesturing for Bronte to step inside. “He’s a really heavy sleeper. From what I’ve heard, the next one we have is the opposite.”

“He’s so gorgeous,” Bronte whispers, tears already forming in her eyes as she peers at Van in his crib. “I want to touch him.”

“Go on. On his back. You should be fine.” He’s a side sleeper, his cute little face relaxed in slumber.

“He’s just like you.”

“Yeah, he is.” I don’t tell her that he’s an alpha. We were both surprised, and horrified, by that fact when he was born, and I’d been mad at myself at the time, because clearly my future self knew and never warned Bronte. But I’ve had time to think about it and realise that I never want to tell her about anything bad that will happen. I can’t have my mate spending her life anticipating disasters and awful moments; it would eat her alive. I want these visits to be something she finds magical. I want her to still be able to live her life in the moment as much as she can, not wait around for a future moment to occur.

“Let’s go back to the living room,” I whisper in her ear.

She sucks in a deep breath. “Okay.”

Bronte finishes the last of her glass of red, and sets it down on the coffee table. “What now?”

I get up, offering her my hand, pulling her to her feet. I’m done with waiting, and I can tell she’s ready. I spin her around, until her back is flush with my front.

“What are you going to do to me?” she asks.

Her heart is racing, and her nipples are stiff peaks beneath her shirt. I grind my dick against the curve of her ass and cup her breasts, pinching and kneading until she’s breathing heavily. “Nothing that you don’t want me to do.” I kiss her neck. “Do you want it?” I grind against her again, making sure she knows exactly what it is.

“Yes.” She arches her back, reaching behind herself to thread her hand in my hair. “I want you to tell me what we do,” she whispers breathily. “I want you to describe it to me, the way I described it to you. Then I want to do it.”

Fuck.

“You’re going to suck on my cock until I come down your throat,” I tell her, remembering all the things Bronte told me. “I’m going to suck on your tits and then fuck you with my tongue until you squirt on my face.”

She’s so fucking wet; I can tell from the smell of her arousal alone.

“Then I’m going to fuck you hard, and knot you. Twice.” I bite at her earlobe, her neck, her shoulder, and she whimpers when I pull the edge of her shirt aside to suck at her mating scar.

“You wanna know the best part?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“You’re going to take off that little pregnancy suppression spell you’ve put around yourself. Ask your wolf to confirm it. No protection, no more pussy ward,” I growl. “My wife and I have already discussed it.”

She gives a shaky little laugh. I’d love to know what her wolf is saying right now.

I press my lips to her ear, growling low. “I’m gonna fucking breed you.”