Accidental Surrogate

Ella

“I wonder what Cora’s up to,” I sigh as I stand by the window rocking Rafe, who his crying a little and fussing in my arms. I know that he doesn’t need anything – he’s been fed, burped, changed, and everything else a baby could want. He’s just crying to cry, and I give a defeated little sigh, smiling at him and knowing that he just has to take a minute to work it out.

Sinclair, sitting on the bed with papers spread out all around him, glances up at me. You haven’t had any word from her?” he asks.

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. The last thing I heard was from the guards, who said they got separated form Cora and Roger by a flash flood. I’m…worried about her.”

“You know Roger will take care of her,” Sinclair says passively, flicking through the papers, looking for one in particular.

“I know,” I sigh, bobbing Rafe in my arms. “But even Roger can’t protect against the forces of nature. It’s just so strange – they’re only three hours away, and they’re apparently caught in some kind of hurricane? And we’ve got sunny skies?” I turn again towards the window, frowning. Something that feels uncannily like my mother’s gift pulses inside me, making my wolf turn towards it in attention, cocking her head to the side curiously. But neither of us know what to make of it, so I sigh again.

Rafe lets out a little wail then, working one of his little arms free of his blanket and waving an angry fist in the air.

“Oh baby,” I murmur, leaning down to give him a little kiss. “What do you have to worry about? You’re not stuck out in a storm. You’re here safe, with mommy!”

“Maybe he’s picking up on mommy’s anxiety,” Sinclair says, standing up from the bed and coming next to us, reaching for the baby. “Maybe he feels it down the bond

“Don’t blame me for your child’s bad attitude,” I say, joking and handing Rafe over into his father’s arms, whose size remind me again of the tiny delicacy of my baby boy “He gets that from your side. I’m no crybaby”

Sinclair laughs, rocking the baby in his arms, and Rafe quiets almost instantly, his yowl softening to an angry little murmur “Why,” Sinclair asks, “do you always suggest that his undesirable qualities come from me? I come from excellent stock”

“Hecause,” I say, standing on tip toe to look down at my baby’s perfect little face, raising a hand to tieke his belly a little I’m jealous, a bit, that he quiets so readily in his father’s aums, but not jealous enough to take him back if it means he’ll cry. Alongside the jealousy, there’s also a part of me that loves Rafe’s connection with his father, that he like me – finds comfort in the Alpha’s arms “My genetic line is that of a perfect Goddess You can’t beat that ”

too, you know,” Sinclair reminds

grinning up at him. “A king.

it, Rafe settling down more completely now, and Sinclair’s mouth drops at little to see his father there, wheeling

Henry

and moving forward. “No- but how-how did you get up here?”

if it’s obvious. He looks to me then. This chair is really state of the art,” he

at me. “I thought I told you to arrange to get

grinning widely to hide the fact that I

back, realizing he’s never going to get his house back to the way it was. I pat him on the arm, knowing that it’s the right choice Henry should have free run

information,” he says, pulling a folder from

behind his chair to look over his shoulder, eager to know more. Sinclair likewise steps

all of their traditions from brother to brother. This has allowed them to operate in the background for decades, largely unnoticed. It’s actually rather a miracle that that book reported anything about them – our best guess is that, in fact, the scholar who wrote it must

looking between Henry and my mate. “But they’re still…operating? In

Cult has, by necessity, had to start leaving a bit of a trail on the dark web and other such underground spaces, in order to communicate across distances and acquire rare materials

and rocking the baby absentmindedly. They’re responsible for switching the sperm that brought Ella and I together. They, for some reason, wanted Rafe to be born.”

high-ranking members of the Cult who wear the robe are, apparently, notoriously reclusive. It is perhaps to our luck that the man who tricked Cora – and,” he shifts his gaze to me,

at Sinclair’s side and folding my arms over my chest. “Why didn’t they send

needed someone with a particular affinity for magic, or someone with great strength. We know, for instance,

that that makes sense, and look up at my

dad,” Sinclair says, his tone suddenly sharp. “What is it you’re not

Henry, curious. There’s nothing on his face that speaks

you’d see through me, Dominic,” he