The nursery was a storm of chaos, and my nerves were frayed. Troy and Ziva, still in their wolf forms, tumbled and yipped, their little bodies knocking over toys and scattering books across the floor. Taylor stood near the door, cradling them with a strange mixture of calm and purpose.
“We can’t stay here,” he said, his voice cutting through my panic.
“Then where do we go?” I snapped, my voice trembling. “They’re five months old, Taylor. Five months. How am I supposed to deal with this?”
“We’re taking them outside—to the beach,” he said simply.
“The beach?” I repeated, incredulous. “Why the hell would we go to the beach?”
“They need space to run,” Taylor said. “And you need to understand what’s happening.”
I stared at him, frustration boiling under my skin. “Understand what, exactly?
