KAT
Betrayal's Price
My body has become a battlefield where three tiny tyrants wage war against my internal organs. At five months pregnant with triplets, I've graduated from morning sickness to all-day discomfort, my belly swollen enough that strangers feel entitled to touch without permission. The cubs respond to intrusion with violent kicks that make me grateful for supernatural healing.
"Stop moving," I mutter at my stomach as Baby A—or maybe B, they're tag-teaming today—delivers a particularly vicious shot to my ribs. "Mommy's trying to review financial records, not practice kickboxing."
The spreadsheets blur together, numbers dancing across my vision as I search for patterns in Gordon's communication logs. Margaret's accountant brother, who we'd trusted with pack finances, who'd
