Rayven had faced rogue attacks, border disputes, and the heavy expectations of an entire pack resting on his shoulders.
None of it compared to the quiet terror of holding his newborn daughter at three in the morning while she screamed like the world was ending.
He stood in the dim light of the nursery, shirtless, hair disheveled, dark eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Phoenix’s tiny face was scrunched red with fury, her fists waving as if challenging him. Talon was in the bassinet beside them, beginning to stir in sympathy cries.
“Shh… little flame,” Rayven murmured, rocking gently. “You’re going to wake your brother, and then your mama will wake, and she needs her rest.”
He had learned that quickly. Willow needed rest.
The first week after birth had not been the glowing peace he’d imagine
