DAVE
Three Sons
Maxwell's voice cuts through the phone like rusted wire, each word dripping contempt. "You're a disgrace to the Westwood name. A communist. An insult to traditional American values and everything our family built."
I hold the phone away from my ear, letting his tirade echo through our bedroom while Kat stretches beside me, five months pregnant and glowing despite the early hour. Her hand rests protective over the swell where our cubs grow, and the sight triggers that now-familiar surge of alpha prime possessiveness.
"Are you finished?" I finally interrupt his rant about how I'm destroying capitalism with my 'socialist experiment.'
"You think this is over? You think—"
I hang up. Some conversations aren't worth finishing, especially when they come from brothers who pois
