Bearly Tamed

Bonus: Bear Cub on Board

Lena

I was late.

Not “oops I missed the bus” late.

Not “crap I forgot to feed the sourdough starter” late.

Late late.

Period-late.

And while I was trying to remain calm, logical, maybe even a little chill about the situation, Logan?

Logan was pacing the cabin like a twelve-hundred-pound emotional support animal in crisis.

“She was supposed to start three days ago,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. “What if it’s already happening? What if she’s nesting?

What if she needs furs? We need more furs.”

“We are not getting more furs, Logan,” I called from the bathroom.

“I saw a rug made from ethically-sourced yak—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“—it was soft. And warm. And I feel like our offspring deserves yak.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Our offspring doesn’t exist yet.”

“You don’t know that.”

He wasn’t wrong.

We’d stopped using protection about twenty seconds after the claiming bite.

Because we were stupid.

And hot.

And I really liked it when he said “mine” while I was on top of him.

But still—I needed confirmation before we entered full grizzly-dad territory.

The test was blinking.

I glared at it.

Then screamed.

Not because of the result.

Because Logan had kicked in the door.

“WHAT?! What happened? Are you bleeding? Did you fall? Did the test bite you?”

“Logan.”

“What if it’s a defective brand? What if it’s not accurate for shifter sperm? We have strong swimmers, Lena—”

“LOGAN.”

He shut up.

I held the stick up.

Two pink lines.

His eyes widened.

Then his pupils dilated.

Then he went pale.

Then he whispered, “...Bear cub.”

And promptly fainted.

---------

Logan

I do not faint.

Let’s get that out of the way.

I momentarily lost vertical control due to the magnitude of the moment. There’s a difference.

When I came to, Lena was straddling me with a wet washcloth on my forehead and a smirk that said “I love you, you absolute idiot.”

“I can’t believe I’m the one knocked up and you’re the one having a stroke,” she said, brushing hair from my face.

I grunted. “You said you weren’t ready.”

She shrugged. “I also said I didn’t trust men. Look how that turned out.”

I reached up, hand cupping the back of her neck. “Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” she admitted. “But also kinda excited?”

I kissed her, slow and soft. “We’ll raise a badass.”

“With a mouth like mine and your growl? That kid’s gonna get expelled from preschool.”

“I’ll build them their own cabin.”

“You cannot just build a baby a cabin, Logan.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re literally Googling lumber mills already, aren’t you?”

He was.

He absolutely was.

Nine Months Later

There were claws.

There was growling.

There was a nurse who got lightly mauled because she told Lena to “breathe through it.”

But when our daughter came out—strong, loud, perfect—and opened her eyes?

I knew.

I would die for this cub.

And anyone who even looked at my girls the wrong way?

Let them come.