Nyra stood at the courtyard's edge, one hand braced against the cold stone archway, the other resting on the taut swell of her belly. Snow dusted her chestnut hair, melting in dark pinpricks against the warmth of her golden skin, and she watched the flakes drift down like the world had gone soft and silent just for her. Behind her, the castle hummed with the distant clatter of servants and the low murmur of courtiers who would never dream of interrupting her solitude. She breathed in the wet smell of frost and stone, and for one long moment, she was simply a woman in the snow, not a queen with a kingdom balanced on her shoulders.

"Nyra."

The voice came from somewhere to her left, bright and breathless, and she didn't need to turn to know who it belonged to. She closed her eyes instead, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself.

"Avery."

The girl appeared at her side like a gust of wind, silver-blond hair tangled with snowflakes, blue eyes wide and glittering with that particular mischief Nyra had learned to recognize as dangerous. She was bundled in a thick wool cloak that did nothing to hide her lean, agile frame, and her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold. She looked like winter itself had decided to be charming.

"Look at it," Avery breathed, gesturing at the courtyard. "It's perfect. It's absolutely perfect."

"It's snow," Nyra said dryly. "It does this every year."

"Not like this. Not this much." Avery spun in a slow circle, arms outstretched, catching flakes on her tongue like a child. "Come on, Nyra. Don't you feel it? The whole world is soft and white and quiet. It's begging for it."

Nyra raised an eyebrow. "Begging for what, exactly?"

Avery stopped spinning, her grin widening until it threatened to split her face. "For a ride."

The words hung in the cold air between them, and Nyra felt the familiar weight of an oncoming headache settle behind her eyes.

"No."

"You didn't even let me finish."

"I know exactly what you were going to ask, and the answer is no."

"You don't know that." Avery stepped closer, her boots crunching in the snow. "You don't know what I was going to say at all."

"You were going to ask me to shift into my fox form and let you ride on my back through the courtyard like some kind of—" Nyra gestured vaguely, "—snow-bound steed."

Avery's face lit up. "Yes. Exactly that. See, you do know."

"Avery." Nyra's voice carried the weight of a queen, patient and firm. "I am pregnant. I am carrying our child. I am not about to let you climb onto my back and gallop through the snow like we're in some kind of feral fairy tale."

"It wouldn't be galloping," Avery said, utterly undeterred. "It would be a gentle trot. A dignified, queenly trot. I'd hold on to your fur and everything."

"My fur."

"Your very soft, very warm fur." Avery's eyes went soft, and she reached out to brush a strand of snow-damp hair from Nyra's face. "It's cold out here, Nyra. You're freezing. I can see it in your shoulders."

Nyra's breath caught, just for a moment, at the tenderness in the gesture. Avery was always like this—a whirlwind of chaos and demands, and then, suddenly, devastatingly gentle. It was the gentleness that undid her every time.

"I'm fine," she said, but her voice had lost its edge.

"You're not." Avery's hand lingered on her cheek, warm against the cold. "You're standing out here in the snow because you needed a moment away from all of them. I know you. And I know that what you really need is to feel the wind in your fur and the snow under your paws and to remember what it feels like to be wild."

Nyra stared at her, caught between exasperation and something softer. "You're manipulative," she said finally. "You know that, right?"

"I'm persuasive. There's a difference."

"There isn't."

"There is." Avery's grin returned, brighter than ever. "Manipulative is when you make someone do something they don't want to do. Persuasive is when you remind them of what they've been wanting all along."

Nyra looked down at her belly, at the swell that had become so familiar, so precious, so heavy. She thought about the weight of the crown waiting for her inside, the endless meetings and decrees and diplomatic smiles. She thought about the way her body had changed, the softness and the ache and the strange, fierce love that flooded her every time she felt the child move.

And she thought about the snow, pristine and untouched, waiting for her.

"One ride," she said, and Avery let out a sound that was half gasp, half squeal.

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes—"

"One ride," Nyra repeated, holding up a finger. "Around the courtyard. Slowly. And you hold on properly, or I will shift back and leave you face-down in the snow."

"I'll hold on like my life depends on it," Avery promised, already bouncing on her heels. "I'll hold on like you're the most precious thing in the world and I'll never let go."

The words landed somewhere deep in Nyra's chest, warm and unwelcome. She turned away to hide the flush creeping up her neck.

"Give me a moment," she said, and stepped back into the shadow of the archway.

Shifting while pregnant was different now. It took more concentration, more breath, a careful negotiation with a body that was no longer entirely her own. She closed her eyes and felt the familiar pull of her bones reshaping, her skin prickling with the shift of fur, her senses sharpening until the world smelled of snow and pine and Avery's warm, excited scent.

When she opened her eyes, she was on four legs, her russet fur thick and gleaming against the white of the courtyard. Her tail swept behind her, heavy and luxurious, and she could feel the weight of her belly low beneath her, warm and protected.

Avery let out a reverent breath. "Oh," she said softly. "Oh, Nyra. You're beautiful."

Nyra huffed, steam curling from her muzzle. Flattery will get you exactly what you want, she thought, and Avery seemed to understand, because she crossed the courtyard in three quick steps and swung herself onto Nyra's back with the easy grace of someone who had done it a thousand times before.

Her thighs pressed against Nyra's sides, warm through the wool of her cloak, and her hands found the thick fur at Nyra's shoulders, gripping gently.

"Ready?" Avery asked, and there was something in her voice—a breathlessness that had nothing to do with the cold.

Nyra took a step. Then another. The snow was soft under her paws, cold and clean, and she felt something loosen in her chest that she hadn't realized was tight.

"You're doing it," Avery whispered, her voice full of wonder. "You're actually doing it."

Nyra trotted forward, slow and steady, her tail sweeping behind her. The courtyard stretched out before them, white and silent, and for a moment she was not a queen or a mother or a woman weighed down by duty. She was just a fox in the snow, wild and free, with the warm weight of someone she loved on her back.

Avery's laugh rang out, bright and joyful, and Nyra felt it in her bones. She picked up the pace, just a little, and Avery whooped, leaning forward to wrap her arms around Nyra's neck.

"Faster," she said, her breath warm against Nyra's ear. "Please, Nyra. Just a little faster."

Nyra should have said no. She should have kept it slow and safe and dignified, the way a pregnant queen ought to move. But Avery's joy was infectious, and the snow was so soft, and her body remembered what it felt like to run.

She broke into a lope, her paws eating up the ground, and Avery's laughter turned into a shriek of delight that echoed off the stone walls. The wind whipped past them, cold and sharp, and Nyra felt alive in a way she hadn't felt in months.

They rounded the far end of the courtyard, past the frozen fountain and the bare, snow-laden trees, and Avery leaned into the turn, her body moving with Nyra's like they were made for this. Like they had always been made for this.

And then Nyra's paw slipped.

It was nothing—a patch of ice hidden under the snow, a moment of lost footing—but it was enough. She stumbled, her body lurching sideways, and she felt Avery's grip tighten, heard her gasp.

Nyra caught herself before she fell, her legs bracing, her tail sweeping for balance. But the damage was done. She stood still, panting, her heart hammering against her ribs, and she felt the child kick, sharp and insistent, as if to remind her that she was not alone in this body.

"Nyra." Avery's voice was different now, soft and worried. She slid off Nyra's back, landing in the snow beside her, her hands reaching for Nyra's muzzle. "Nyra, are you okay? Is the baby—"

Nyra shifted back, the change rippling through her like a wave, and suddenly she was on her knees in the snow, her hands pressed to her belly, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"I'm fine," she said, but her voice shook. "We're fine. I just—I slipped."

Avery dropped to her knees in front of her, snow soaking through the wool of her cloak, her hands finding Nyra's, gripping them tight.

"I'm sorry," Avery said, and her voice cracked. "I'm so sorry, Nyra. I shouldn't have pushed. I shouldn't have—I'm so sorry."

Nyra looked at her, at the fear in those bright blue eyes, at the way her hands trembled around Nyra's, and she felt something crack open in her chest.

"It wasn't your fault," she said. "I chose to run. I wanted to run."

"But I asked you to." Avery's voice was thick with tears. "I always ask you to. I'm always pushing, always demanding, and you always give in because you're too soft-hearted to say no to me, and one day—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "One day I'm going to push too far, and something terrible is going to happen, and it's going to be my fault."

Nyra reached out, her hand cupping Avery's cold cheek. "Look at me."

Avery looked at her, eyes shining, lower lip trembling.

"You are not going to lose me," Nyra said, and her voice was steady now, a queen's voice, a mother's voice. "You are not going to lose this child. And you are not going to lose me to a patch of ice in the snow. Do you understand?"

Avery nodded, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

"I love you," Nyra said, and the words felt like a confession, like something she had been holding in her chest for too long. "I love you, and I love this baby, and I love the way you push and demand and never let me rest. It's exhausting. It's infuriating. And I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Avery let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "You're such a softie."

"I am a queen," Nyra said, but she was smiling. "I am the future Wolf Queen, and I am not a softie."

"You're my softie," Avery said, and she leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Nyra's. "My soft, beautiful, pregnant softie who let me ride her through the snow like a fairy tale."

Nyra laughed, the sound surprising her. "You're impossible."

"And you love me."

"I do." Nyra's hand slid from Avery's cheek to the back of her neck, pulling her closer. "I really do."

The snow fell around them, soft and silent, and for a long moment they just knelt there, forehead to forehead, breathing each other's air. Nyra could feel the child moving again, a gentle flutter, and she pressed her other hand to her belly, grounding herself.

"Can I ask you something?" Avery said, her voice small.

"Anything."

"When the baby comes..." Avery hesitated, her fingers curling into the fabric of Nyra's robe. "When the baby comes, will you still have time for me? Will you still want me to bother you and tease you and make you laugh?"

Nyra pulled back, looking at her. "Avery."

"I know it's selfish," Avery said quickly. "I know I should be thinking about the baby, and I am, I really am, but I just—I'm scared. I'm scared that everything is going to change, and you're going to be so busy being a mother and a queen that there won't be any room left for us. For this."

Nyra's heart ached. She reached out, taking Avery's hands in hers, and she squeezed them tight.

"You are my mate," she said. "You are the person I chose, the person I fought for, the person I would fight for again and again. The baby is a part of us, both of us. It doesn't replace you. It doesn't push you out. It makes us bigger, Avery. It makes us more."

Avery sniffled. "Promise?"

"I promise." Nyra lifted Avery's hands to her lips, pressing a kiss to her cold knuckles. "Now come inside. You're freezing, and I need to lie down before this child decides to start a rebellion."

Avery laughed, watery and bright. "Can I lie down with you?"

"If you behave."

"I never behave."

"Then you can lie down beside me and be quiet while I pretend to sleep."

"Deal."

Nyra got to her feet, her body protesting the cold and the exertion, and Avery was there in an instant, her arm sliding around Nyra's waist, steadying her. They walked back toward the castle, snow crunching under their boots, and Nyra leaned into Avery's warmth, letting herself be held.

The courtyard was quiet behind them, the snow already filling in their tracks, erasing the evidence of their wild, foolish, perfect ride. But Nyra could still feel it—the wind in her fur, Avery's laugh in her ear, the thrum of joy that had carried her across the snow.

She pressed a hand to her belly, feeling the child settle, and she smiled.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Avery looked at her. "For what?"

"For reminding me what it feels like to be wild."

Avery's grin returned, brighter than the snow. "Anytime, my queen. Anytime."

They disappeared into the castle, the door swinging shut behind them, and the courtyard was left to the snow and the silence and the fading echo of a laugh that had sounded like freedom.

The warmth of the castle hit them like a wall, chasing the cold from their cheeks and the stiffness from their fingers. The door swung shut behind them, muffling the world outside, and the hall stretched before them—long and low and lit by the soft orange glow of braziers that lined the stone walls. The snow still clung to Avery's silver-blond hair, melting into dark strands that stuck to her forehead, and her cheeks were flushed pink in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

Nyra let out a slow breath, her hand pressed to the small of her back, feeling the ache settle into her bones. The shift had taken more out of her than she wanted to admit. She could feel it in the tremor of her legs, in the way her body protested the weight of her belly with every step.

But she was fine. They were fine. The baby was fine.

"Come on," she said, turning toward the corridor that led to their chambers. "Let's get you out of those wet clothes before you turn into an icicle."

Avery didn't move. She stood in the middle of the hall, her head tilted, her bright blue eyes fixed on Nyra with that particular look—the one that meant she was thinking something she shouldn't be thinking.

"Avery."

"I'm not cold."

"You're shivering."

"That's not from the cold."

Nyra raised an eyebrow, her hand still pressed to her back. "Then what is it from?"

Avery crossed the distance between them in three quick steps, her boots silent on the worn stone. She stopped close—too close—and her hand found Nyra's waist, sliding around to rest on the small of her back, right where Nyra's own hand had been moments before.

"I was thinking," Avery said, her voice dropping to something soft and low, "about how beautiful you looked out there. All golden and warm in the snow. Like something out of a dream."

"You say that every time I shift."

"Because it's true every time."

Nyra's lips twitched. "Flattery."

"Persuasion." Avery's grin was quick and mischievous, but there was something beneath it—something earnest, almost fragile. "You said I was persuasive."

"I said you were manipulative."

"Same thing."

Nyra sighed, but there was no heat in it. She reached up and brushed a strand of wet hair from Avery's forehead, her fingers lingering on the cold skin. "You need to get out of these clothes."

"I need a lot of things."

The words hung in the air between them, weighted with something neither of them named. Nyra felt the heat rise in her chest, spreading up her neck, and she turned away before Avery could see it.

"The fire's lit in our chambers," she said, her voice carefully even. "Come on."

She started down the corridor, and Avery fell into step beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed with every step. The hall was quiet, the distant clatter of servants fading as they moved deeper into the castle. The braziers cast long shadows on the walls, flickering and dancing, and Nyra could feel Avery's gaze on her the whole way.

The door to their chambers was heavy oak, carved with the wolf sigil of their house. Nyra pushed it open and stepped inside, and the warmth of the fire washed over her, soothing the ache in her muscles. The room was large and comfortable, furnished with soft furs and thick tapestries, and the fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting a golden glow over everything.

Nyra moved to the fire, holding her hands out to the flames, and she heard the door click shut behind her. Avery's footsteps crossed the room, and then Avery was there, standing close, her warmth pressing against Nyra's back.

"Nyra."

"Mm."

"Can I ask you something?"

Nyra's heart stuttered, just for a moment. "You can ask me anything."

Avery's hands found her shoulders, thumbs tracing circles on the tense muscle there. "Out there, in the snow, you said you loved me."

"I meant it."

"I know you meant it." Avery's voice was soft, almost shy. "That's not what I'm asking."

Nyra turned, facing her. Avery's face was open, vulnerable, the mischief momentarily set aside. Her blue eyes were dark in the firelight, searching Nyra's face for something.

"What are you asking?" Nyra said.

Avery's gaze dropped, tracing down Nyra's body, lingering on the swell of her belly before rising again. Her throat moved as she swallowed.

"Can I... taste you?"

The words landed like a stone in still water, rippling outward. Nyra's breath caught, and she felt the heat rise in her chest, spreading through her body like a slow tide.

"Avery."

"I know it's strange," Avery said quickly, her words tumbling over each other. "I know it's—you're pregnant, and your body is doing all these things, and I just—I want to be close to you. I want to know every part of you. And I keep thinking about it, about what it would be like, and I can't stop."

Nyra stared at her, her heart pounding. Her breasts ached, full and heavy, a familiar pressure she'd been ignoring for hours. She'd felt it all day, the swelling tightness, the dampness that had soaked through her shift. It was a constant reminder of the changes her body was going through, and she'd grown used to it, almost numb to it.

But Avery's words brought it all rushing back, sharp and immediate.

"You want to taste my milk," Nyra said, and the words felt strange on her tongue, intimate and exposing.

Avery's cheeks flushed, but she didn't look away. "Yes."

"Avery, that's—"

"I know." Avery stepped closer, her hands sliding from Nyra's shoulders to her waist, thumbs tracing the curve of her belly. "I know it's strange. I know it's not—I don't know what it is. I just know that I want to be close to you, and this is part of you now. This body, this baby, this milk. It's all yours, and I want to know all of it."

Nyra's throat tightened. She looked down at Avery's hands on her belly, at the way they cradled the swell with such tenderness, and she felt something crack open in her chest.

"You're not afraid?" she asked quietly. "That it'll be... strange?"

"I'm afraid of a lot of things," Avery said. "I'm afraid of losing you. I'm afraid of the baby changing everything. I'm afraid of being pushed aside. But I'm not afraid of this." She looked up, meeting Nyra's eyes. "I'm not afraid of you."

Nyra's breath came out shaky. She reached up, cupping Avery's face in her hands, and pressed her forehead to Avery's.

"You're going to be the death of me," she whispered.

"That's not a no."

"It's not a yes either."

"But it's not a no."

Nyra laughed, a soft, breathless sound. "You're impossible."

"And you love me."

"I do." Nyra pulled back, looking at her. "I really do."

Avery's grin softened, and she leaned into Nyra's touch, her eyes fluttering closed. "Then let me."

Nyra's hands trembled on Avery's face. The ache in her breasts was a constant thrum, a pressure that had been building all day, and she could feel the dampness against her shift, the evidence of how full she was. She thought about the servants in the hall, the courtiers who would never dream of interrupting her solitude. She thought about the weight of the crown, the endless duties waiting for her.

And she thought about Avery's hands on her belly, warm and reverent, and the way her voice had cracked when she'd said she was afraid of being pushed aside.

"Not here," Nyra said finally, and Avery's face fell. "Not where anyone could walk in."

Avery's eyes widened. "You mean—"

Nyra took her hand, leading her toward the shadowed alcove by the window, where the heavy curtains blocked out the cold and the dark. She pulled Avery inside, the fabric falling closed behind them, and the world narrowed to the warm, dim space between them.

The firelight filtered through the thick velvet, casting everything in a soft, golden glow. Nyra leaned back against the stone wall, her hands pressed to the swell of her belly, and she looked at Avery—at the hunger in those bright blue eyes, the flush on her cheeks, the way her breath came quick and shallow.

"Nyra," Avery breathed, and the word was a prayer.

Nyra reached for the ties of her robe, her fingers clumsy with nerves. The fabric fell open, sliding off her shoulders, and she felt the cool air against her heated skin. Her shift was thin, almost transparent, and she could see the dark circles of her nipples through the fabric, the dampness that had soaked through.

Avery's breath caught. "Oh."

Nyra's cheeks burned. "It's—I'm full. It's been building all day."

"You're beautiful," Avery said, and there was no teasing in her voice, only raw, aching sincerity. "You're so beautiful, Nyra."

Nyra's throat tightened. She reached for the hem of her shift, and Avery was there in an instant, her hands covering Nyra's, gentle and insistent.

"Let me," Avery said.

Nyra let her hands fall. Avery's fingers found the hem of the shift, and she lifted it slowly, reverently, revealing the swell of Nyra's belly, the soft curve of her breasts. The fabric pooled at Nyra's waist, and Avery's eyes traced over her body, dark and hungry and full of wonder.

"You're so full," Avery murmured, her hand rising to cup Nyra's breast, her thumb brushing over the taut, aching nipple. Nyra gasped, her hips pressing back against the wall, and a bead of milk beaded at the tip, pearly and glistening in the firelight.

Avery stared at it, transfixed. "Can I—"

"Yes," Nyra breathed, and the word was barely more than a whisper. "Yes, please."

Avery leaned in, her lips parting, and her tongue touched the bead of milk, a tentative, reverent taste. Nyra's breath stuttered, her hands flying to Avery's hair, gripping the silver-blond strands.

"Oh," she gasped, and the sound was raw, surprised, full of a pleasure she hadn't expected.

Avery's tongue traced the tip of her nipple, slow and deliberate, and Nyra felt a pulse of heat low in her belly. The milk came then, a slow trickle that Avery caught with her mouth, drinking it down with a soft, hungry sound.

"Avery," Nyra breathed, her voice cracking. "Avery, please—"

She didn't know what she was asking for. More. Slower. Harder. She didn't know. She only knew that the ache in her breasts was easing, the pressure releasing in waves of warmth that made her knees weak, and Avery's mouth was the most exquisite relief she had ever felt.

Avery pulled back, just for a moment, her lips glistening with milk, her eyes dark and dazed. "You taste like honey," she said, and her voice was rough, wondering. "You taste like you."

Nyra's heart was pounding. She reached down, pulling Avery's face back to her breast, and Avery went willingly, her mouth latching on, her tongue working in slow, rhythmic strokes that drew the milk out in a steady flow.

Nyra let her head fall back against the wall, her eyes fluttering closed, her hands buried in Avery's hair. The pleasure was a slow, deep thrum, spreading through her body like warmth from a fire, and she could feel the baby moving, a gentle flutter, as if responding to the closeness of their other parent.

"I love you," Nyra whispered, the words falling from her lips without thought. "I love you so much, Avery."

Avery made a sound against her breast, a soft, desperate noise, and her hand found Nyra's, lacing their fingers together over the swell of her belly.

The milk came in waves, each one easing the pressure a little more, and Avery drank until the flow slowed, until Nyra's breath evened out, until the ache was a memory. Avery pulled back, her lips red and swollen, her eyes shining, and she pressed a kiss to Nyra's belly, soft and reverent.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick. "Thank you for trusting me."

Nyra's hand found her cheek, tilting her face up. "Thank you for asking."

Avery's grin was watery, bright. "Can I—will you let me do that again? Sometime?"

Nyra laughed, a soft, breathless sound. "You're going to be the death of me."

"That's not a no."

Nyra pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her hair. "It's not a no."

Nyra's arms tightened around Avery, the warmth of the alcove settling around them like a second skin. The firelight flickered through the velvet curtains, painting them both in shades of gold and shadow, and for a long moment neither of them moved. Avery's face was pressed against Nyra's chest, her breath warm and even against the swell of Nyra's breast, and Nyra could feel the steady thrum of her heartbeat, slow and content.

"We should get you out of those wet clothes," Nyra murmured, her fingers carding through Avery's tangled hair. "You're going to catch a chill."

"Don't want to move," Avery mumbled against her skin. "You're warm. You smell like honey and snow and you."

Nyra laughed softly, the sound vibrating through her chest. "Flatterer."

"Persuader." Avery lifted her head, her blue eyes dark and soft in the dim light. "You know I only use my powers for good."

"Your powers are a menace to the crown."

"The crown loves me."

"The crown tolerates you." Nyra's hand slid from Avery's hair to her cheek, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "Barely."

Avery leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed. "Barely counts."

It did. It always did. Nyra looked at her — at the flush still high on her cheeks, the milk still glistening on her lower lip — and felt something twist low in her belly, warm and aching. The baby kicked, a soft flutter against her palm, and she pressed her hand to the swell, grounding herself.

"Come," she said, her voice gentler than she intended. "Let's get you dry before you turn into a puddle on my floor."

Avery pouted but allowed herself to be pulled upright. The shift had left Nyra's body heavy and slow, her joints aching from the cold and the strain, and she leaned into Avery's warmth as they crossed the room. The fire had burned low, embers glowing orange in the hearth, and Nyra guided Avery to the chair beside it, pushing her down with a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Stay."

"I'm not a dog."

"You're worse." Nyra fetched a thick fur blanket from the bed, draping it over Avery's shoulders. "You're a wolf who thinks she's a puppy."

Avery grinned, snuggling into the fur. "Your puppy."

Nyra rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. She moved to the hearth, stoking the embers back to life, and the flames leaped up, casting fresh warmth across the room. The ache in her back was a dull throb now, a familiar companion, and she pressed her hand to the small of it, wincing.

"Sit down," Avery said, her voice sharp with concern. "You're exhausted."

"I'm fine."

"You're not." Avery was on her feet in an instant, the fur blanket falling forgotten to the floor. She crossed to Nyra, her hands finding her waist, guiding her toward the bed. "Sit. Lie down. Let me take care of you for once."

Nyra opened her mouth to argue, but the words died in her throat. Avery's hands were warm and insistent, and the bed looked impossibly soft, and her body was so, so tired.

"Fine," she said, and Avery's face lit up with such triumph that Nyra almost laughed. "But only because the baby is heavy tonight."

"The baby is always heavy," Avery said, helping her onto the bed, arranging the pillows behind her back. "You're always carrying something heavy. Let me carry some of it for once."

Nyra's throat tightened. She watched Avery fuss over her — tucking the furs around her legs, adjusting the pillows, brushing a strand of hair from her face — and felt something crack open in her chest, warm and raw.

"You already do," she said quietly.

Avery paused, looking at her. "What?"

"Carry it. You carry more than you know."

Avery's cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head, suddenly shy. "I just—I want to take care of you. That's all."

"I know." Nyra reached out, catching Avery's hand, pulling her down onto the bed beside her. "And I want to let you."

Avery settled against her, her head finding the curve of Nyra's shoulder, her hand resting on the swell of Nyra's belly. The baby kicked, a soft flutter against her palm, and Avery's breath caught.

"She's moving," Avery whispered.

"She always moves when you're close." Nyra's hand covered Avery's, pressing it against the spot where the baby had kicked. "I think she knows you."

Avery was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was small. "Do you think she'll like me?"

"She'll adore you."

"How do you know?"

"Because I do." Nyra turned her head, pressing a kiss to Avery's hair. "And because she has your stubbornness. She's going to be impossible."

Avery laughed, watery and bright. "Good. Then she'll fit right in."

The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the silence between them. Nyra's eyes grew heavy, the warmth of the furs and the weight of Avery against her side pulling her toward sleep. She felt the baby settle, a gentle pressure low in her belly, and she let out a slow breath.

"Avery."

"Mm?"

"I'm glad it's you."

Avery's hand tightened on her belly. "I'm glad it's you too."

Nyra drifted, the edges of sleep softening the world. She felt Avery shift beside her, felt her lips press against her shoulder, felt the warmth of her breath through the thin fabric of her shift.

"I love you," Avery whispered, and Nyra smiled, the words following her down into the dark.

---

The next weeks blurred together in a haze of golden afternoons and long, cold nights. The snow melted, then fell again, then melted once more, and the castle settled into the rhythm of the season. Nyra's belly grew heavier, the baby more insistent, and Avery grew more impossible.

She was everywhere — underfoot in the throne room, trailing Nyra through the corridors, appearing at her elbow in the middle of council meetings with a cup of tea and a pout that said she'd been waiting too long. The courtiers whispered, of course. They always whispered. But Nyra found she didn't care as much as she once had.

What she cared about was the way Avery's hands found her belly every chance they got. The way she talked to the baby in a low, conspiratorial murmur that Nyra could never quite hear. The way she pressed her ear to Nyra's stomach at night, listening for the flutter of movement, her face soft with wonder.

"She's going to be a runner," Avery announced one evening, her cheek pressed to the swell of Nyra's belly. "I can feel it. She's going to be fast and wild and she's going to get into so much trouble."

"She gets it from you."

"I prefer to think she gets it from you." Avery lifted her head, grinning. "The dignified queen who let her mate ride her through the snow like a fairy tale."

"I will never live that down, will I?"

"Never." Avery's grin softened into something tender. "It was the best day of my life."

Nyra's heart squeezed. She reached down, her fingers threading through Avery's silver-blond hair. "Mine too."

---

The birth came on a night of howling wind and driving snow, the kind of night that made the castle feel like a ship adrift in a white sea. Nyra had known it was coming — had felt the shift in her body, the low, insistent pressure building through the day — and when the first true pain hit, she'd gripped the edge of the table and breathed through it, her hand pressed to the swell of her belly.

Avery had been beside her the whole time. Her hand in Nyra's, her voice a steady stream of nonsense and reassurance, her face pale with a fear she tried to hide. The midwives had shooed her out twice, and twice she'd come back, slipping through the door like a ghost, her blue eyes fixed on Nyra with an intensity that bordered on desperate.

"You're doing so well," Avery said, her voice cracking. "You're so strong, Nyra. You're so beautiful. You're—"

"Avery." Nyra's voice was ragged, her grip on Avery's hand nearly crushing. "Shut up and hold my hand."

Avery laughed, a wet, shaky sound. "Okay. Okay. I'm holding."

The pain was a white-hot tide, rising and falling, and Nyra rode it with everything she had. She thought of the snow, of the wind in her fur, of the wild, free feeling of running. She thought of Avery's laugh, bright and joyful, echoing off the stone walls. She thought of the baby — their baby — and the fierce, aching love that had been growing in her chest for months.

And then, with a final, shuddering push, the pain broke, and there was a cry — thin and reedy and impossibly loud — and the midwife was placing something warm and squirming on Nyra's chest.

"A girl," the midwife said, her voice thick with emotion. "A healthy, beautiful girl."

Nyra looked down. The baby was red and wrinkled and perfect, her tiny fists clenched, her mouth open in a wail that seemed far too big for her small body. Her hair was a dark, damp fuzz, and her eyes — when they blinked open, unfocused and curious — were a pale, luminous blue.

Avery's voice was a choked whisper. "Oh."

Nyra looked up, and Avery was there, her face streaked with tears, her eyes shining with a wonder that made Nyra's heart ache.

"She's perfect," Avery breathed. "She's absolutely perfect."

"She has your eyes," Nyra said, her voice hoarse. "And your lungs."

Avery laughed, a sound caught between a sob and a giggle. "She's definitely mine."

The midwives fussed and cleaned and cooed, and eventually the room emptied, leaving just the three of them. Nyra lay in the bed, the baby cradled against her chest, and Avery perched on the edge of the mattress, her hand resting on the baby's tiny back, her eyes fixed on her face.

"Mavie," Nyra said softly. "I want to call her Mavie."

Avery's breath caught. "Mavie."

"It means 'she who is loved.'" Nyra looked at Avery, her eyes shining. "Because she is. So loved."

Avery leaned in, pressing her forehead to Nyra's, and for a long moment they just breathed together, the baby warm and small between them.

"I love you," Avery whispered. "Both of you. So much."

"I know," Nyra said, and she smiled. "I know."

Mavie's first week was a blur of sleepless nights and golden mornings. The nursery, once a dusty chamber at the end of the corridor, had been transformed into a warm nest of furs and soft lamplight, and Nyra spent most of her hours there, the baby cradled against her chest, her body learning the rhythm of motherhood. The midwives came and went, the courtiers sent gifts, and the castle hummed with the quiet, expectant joy of a kingdom awaiting its heir.

But the joy was not without its complications.

The first time Nyra tried to nurse, Mavie latched on with a fierce, instinctive hunger that made Nyra gasp. The baby's mouth was small and hot, her tiny fists pressing against Nyra's breast, and the milk came in a rush, easing the ache that had been building for hours. Nyra let out a slow breath, her hand cradling Mavie's head, and she felt the strange, tender weight of it all — the life she had grown, the body she now shared, the love that flooded her chest like a tide.

And then the door creaked open, and Avery slipped inside.

Nyra looked up, expecting a smile, a soft word, a quiet moment of shared wonder. Instead, she found Avery frozen in the doorway, her blue eyes fixed on the baby at Nyra's breast, her expression unreadable.

"Avery?"

Avery's throat moved as she swallowed. "Is she... is she eating?"

"Yes." Nyra's voice was gentle. "She was hungry."

Avery took a step closer, then another, her gaze never leaving the baby. "Does it hurt?"

"A little. But it's... it's good. It's a good kind of ache."

Avery nodded, but she didn't look away. She crossed the room slowly, her footsteps silent on the thick furs, and she stopped at the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in front of her like she didn't know what to do with them.

"Can I—" She stopped, her voice catching. "Can I watch?"

Nyra's heart squeezed. "Of course you can watch. She's your daughter too."

Avery settled onto the edge of the mattress, her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around them. She watched Mavie nurse with an intensity that bordered on hunger, her eyes tracing the movement of the baby's jaw, the rise and fall of Nyra's chest, the soft, rhythmic sounds of swallowing.

"She's so small," Avery whispered.

"She'll grow."

"I know." Avery's voice was quiet, almost to herself. "I just... I didn't expect her to be so small. Or so..." She trailed off, searching for the word. "So much."

Nyra smiled, reaching out to brush a strand of silver-blond hair from Avery's face. "She's perfect."

"She is." Avery's eyes finally lifted to meet Nyra's, and there was something raw in them, something vulnerable and unguarded. "You're perfect. Both of you."

The baby finished nursing, her mouth releasing Nyra's breast with a soft, satisfied sound, and Nyra lifted her to her shoulder, patting her back gently. Mavie let out a tiny burp, then a contented sigh, her eyes already drifting closed.

"Here," Nyra said softly, holding the baby out to Avery. "Hold her."

Avery's eyes widened. "I—I don't know how."

"You just hold her. Support her head. Like this." Nyra guided Avery's arms, positioning them until the baby was cradled against Avery's chest, her tiny face pressed to the hollow of Avery's throat. Avery went rigid at first, her breath held, her hands trembling.

"She's so warm," Avery breathed.

"She's yours." Nyra's hand rested on Avery's shoulder, warm and steady. "She's ours."

Avery looked down at the baby, her eyes shining. Mavie stirred, her tiny fist curling against Avery's collarbone, and a sound escaped Avery's lips — something between a laugh and a sob.

"Hi, Mavie," she whispered. "I'm your other mother. I'm going to teach you how to cause so much trouble."

Nyra laughed, the sound bright and unexpected. "Please don't."

"Too late. It's in her blood."

The days that followed were a delicate dance of new routines and old habits. Nyra learned to read Mavie's cries — the sharp, insistent wail of hunger, the fussy whimper of a wet cloth, the soft, cooing sounds of contentment. She learned to nurse in the quiet hours of the night, the fire low, the castle silent, the baby warm against her chest. And she learned that Avery was never far.

Avery was there in the morning, hovering at the edge of the nursery with a cup of tea and a pout. She was there in the afternoon, trailing Nyra through the corridors, her hand finding the small of Nyra's back at every opportunity. She was there at night, curled against Nyra's side, her hand resting on the baby's crib, her eyes fixed on Mavie's sleeping face.

At first, Nyra thought it was devotion. She thought Avery was simply reveling in the newness of it all, the miracle of their daughter, the joy of their expanded family. But as the days passed, she began to notice something else — a tension in Avery's shoulders, a tightness around her eyes, a desperate quality to the way she reached for Nyra at every opportunity.

And then, one evening, it came to a head.

Nyra was nursing Mavie in the nursery, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, when Avery appeared in the doorway. She stood there for a long moment, watching, and then she crossed the room and settled onto the bed beside Nyra, her hand finding Nyra's knee.

"She's eating again," Avery said, and there was something in her voice — a note Nyra couldn't quite name.

"She's hungry a lot. She's growing."

"I know." Avery's hand tightened on Nyra's knee. "It's just... you're always feeding her. Or holding her. Or singing to her. And I just—" She stopped, her voice catching. "I miss you."

Nyra's heart ached. She looked at Avery — at the vulnerability in her blue eyes, the way her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for a blow — and she understood, suddenly and completely.

"Avery," she said softly. "Come here."

Avery hesitated, then shifted closer, her body pressing against Nyra's side. Nyra adjusted Mavie in her arms, making room, and Avery's head found the curve of her shoulder, her hand resting on Nyra's belly, on the spot where the baby had once kicked.

"I'm not going anywhere," Nyra said. "I'm not pushing you aside. You're my mate. You're her mother. That doesn't change."

"I know," Avery whispered, but her voice was thick. "I just... I see her at your breast, and I remember what it felt like to be that close to you. And I want it again. I want to be that close again."

Nyra's breath caught. The baby finished nursing, her mouth releasing with a soft sound, and Nyra lifted her to her shoulder, patting her back. Mavie let out a tiny burp, then a contented sigh, her eyes already drifting closed.

"Put her down," Avery said, her voice low. "Please. Just for a moment."

Nyra looked at her — at the hunger in those blue eyes, the flush on her cheeks, the way her hand trembled against Nyra's belly — and she felt the familiar pull, the ache that never quite went away.

She rose, crossing to the crib, and laid Mavie down gently, tucking the fur around her. The baby stirred, then settled, her tiny face peaceful in sleep.

And then Avery was there, her hands finding Nyra's waist, pulling her close.

"I need you," Avery breathed, her lips against Nyra's throat. "I need you so much, Nyra."

Nyra's hands found Avery's shoulders, gripping tight. "I'm here."

"I know." Avery's mouth found hers, soft and insistent, and Nyra melted into her, the heat rising between them like a tide. Avery's hands slid down Nyra's back, pressing her closer, and Nyra felt the familiar ache low in her belly, the pull of desire that had been buried under feedings and sleepless nights and the relentless demands of a newborn.

But then Mavie stirred in the crib, a soft, fussy sound, and Nyra pulled back, her breath coming quick.

"She's waking up."

"She's always waking up," Avery said, and there was a petulant edge to her voice. "She's always hungry, always crying, always needing you. And I just—" She stopped, her hands dropping from Nyra's waist. "I just want you to need me too."

Nyra's heart cracked. She reached for Avery, pulling her close, pressing her forehead to Avery's.

"I do need you," she said, her voice fierce. "I need you more than you know. But she's a baby, Avery. She can't help it. She needs me in a way that's different from how I need you."

"I know." Avery's voice was small. "I know. I just—I'm jealous. Of my own daughter. Isn't that pathetic?"

"It's not pathetic." Nyra's hand cupped Avery's cheek, tilting her face up. "It's human. It's wolf. It's love. It's messy and complicated and it doesn't fit into neat little boxes. But it's real, and it's ours."

Avery's eyes shone with unshed tears. "Promise me you won't forget about me."

"I promise." Nyra pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I promise you, Avery. You are my mate. You are my heart. And no matter how many babies we have, no matter how many years pass, that will never change."

Avery let out a shaky breath, her arms tightening around Nyra's waist. "I love you."

"I love you too." Nyra pulled back, looking at her. "Now, are you going to help me with her, or are you going to stand there and pout?"

Avery's lips twitched. "I was thinking I could do both."

"You're impossible."

"And you love me."

"I do." Nyra laughed, the sound bright and warm. "I really do."

The moment was broken by a wail from the crib — sharp and insistent — and Nyra sighed, turning toward her daughter. But Avery caught her hand, pulling her back.

"Let me," Avery said, and there was something new in her voice — a determination, a resolve. "Let me try."

Nyra blinked. "Try what?"

"To calm her down. To hold her. To be her mother." Avery's chin lifted, her blue eyes fierce. "I'm not going to be pushed aside. I'm not going to be the one who's always on the outside. She's my daughter too, and I'm going to learn how to take care of her."

Nyra's heart swelled. She stepped aside, gesturing toward the crib. "She's all yours."

Avery crossed to the crib, her hands trembling slightly as she reached down and lifted Mavie into her arms. The baby's wail hitched, then stopped, her luminous blue eyes blinking up at Avery with curious recognition.

"Hi," Avery whispered, her voice cracking. "Hi, little one. I'm your mother. And I'm going to figure this out."

Mavie stared at her for a long moment, her tiny face scrunching up. And then, to Nyra's astonishment, she smiled — a gummy, toothless grin that transformed her face.

Avery's breath caught. "Did she just—"

"She smiled at you." Nyra's voice was thick with emotion. "She knows you, Avery. She loves you."

Avery looked down at her daughter, her eyes shining, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "I love you too," she whispered. "So much."

The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the silence between them, and Nyra stood in the doorway of the nursery, watching her family — her mate and her daughter — and felt the fierce, aching love that had been growing in her chest for months finally settle into something whole.

But even as the warmth flooded her, she saw it — the flicker of something else in Avery's eyes. A hunger that had nothing to do with the baby. A need that had been building since the snow, since the alcove, since the first taste of honey-sweet milk.

And Nyra knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that Avery's jealousy was far from over.