Archive of Our Own

The afternoon heat hung over the Garden District like a damp blanket, thick enough to taste. Alastor Dezord lounged across the settee in the front parlor, one arm draped over his eyes, listening to the ceiling fan beat its useless rhythm against the air. The lace curtains didn’t so much as twitch. Even the flies were too lazy to buzz.

“Alastor Philipe Dezord.”

His mama’s voice cut through the stillness. Three names. Never a good sign.

Alastor didn’t move. “He’s not home.”

“You are very much home, and you are very much about to explain yourself.” Madamm Dezord swept into the parlor like a storm front in a new seersucker dress, her waist-length braids swaying to the rhythm of her wide hips. Every footfall announced her arrival with the crick crick crick of the cypress floorboards. Behind her trailed Alastor’s father, Misyé Dezord, followed by Alastor’s six-year-old sister Marcella. CeCe, as everyone called her, had a triumphant grin on her brown little face, still shining from a good rubbing with Vaseline.

Alastor lifted his arm just enough to peer at them with one eye. “Y’all look like a funeral procession. Who died?”

“Your prospects,” Madamm Dezord said flatly. “Again.”

Misyé Dezord lowered himself into a wingback chair with the long-suffering sigh. CeCe immediately scrambled onto the settee and planted herself on Alastor’s stomach. 

“Watch it, would you?” Alastor scolded. “You aren’t exactly weightless, dear.”

“You tryin’ to say I’m fat? That’s why you’re in trouble with mama now.” CeCe grinned wider. “Everybody knows she only calls you by your government name when you do somethin’ stupid.”

“Oh dear, you really shouldn’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Oh no. We’re talkin’ about you and your stupid no-mate havin’ ways!”

“CeCe,” Misye Dezord warned.

“What? Ya’ll always say that the truth will make you free.” CeCe shrugged, smoothing back her already sleek hair.

Madamm Dezord positioned herself directly in Alastor’s line of sight, hands on her generous hips. She was a handsome woman even in her fifties, tall for a vayan, with the deep brown skin and sharp cheekbones she’d passed down to her son. Her eyes—those dark unsettling brown eyes that Alastor had inherited too—were currently promising violence.

“Joseph Bernard,” Madamm Dezord began tersely. “Flew all the way from Paris. Vayan. Filthy rich. Family’s in the international shipping trade.” She paused, letting the indictment build. “And you told him what, exactly?”

“I told him the truth,” Alastor replied. “He asked if I was capable of bearing children for a trézòr my age. So, I asked him if he was capable of managing his own portfolios, seeing as they’re currently below the stock market value.” He smirked, adjusting his glasses. “Seemed only fair to ask a personal question in return. Quid pro quo.”

CeCe laughed, but Madamm Dezord’s sharp glare stopped her cold. 

“Marcella Angelique Dezord,” she said warningly, “didn’t I tell you to stay out of grown folks’ business? Don’t you have homework to finish?”

CeCe’s grin faltered. “But Mama—

“But mama nothin’!” Misyé Dezord intervened smoothly. He pointed toward the front door with a stern tilt of his chin. “Go on now. Mind yourself some children’s business before you find yourself grounded.”

CeCe slid off the settee with a dramatic huff, her little arms crossed over her chest. 

“Y’all never let me hear nothin’ fun,” she muttered, stomping toward the door. She paused briefly to stick her tongue out at Alastor, who merely smirked and gave her a playful wink.

Once her footsteps faded, Madamm Dezord turned her full attention back to Alastor, her hands returning to her hips. “Baby,” she said, her tone heavy with exasperation, “You can’t go around insulting every vayan who tries to court you.”

“It’s not an insult if it’s the truth,” Alastor shrugged. “Besides, if he couldn’t handle a little honesty, he wasn’t worth my time to begin with.”

Madamm Dezord drew a slow breath through her nose. The sort of breath that preceded either wisdom or bloodshed. “Alastor. Trézòr like you don’t grow on trees. You know this. Every pack knows this. Every eligible vayan from here to Baton Rouge knows this. But you—She stopped, pressed her palm flat against her sternum, and visibly collected herself. “You don chased off eleven suitors in the past year!  Eleven! That Mr. Benard left with a black eye. The mogul from California actually cried. Every suitor you get you send ‘em all runnin’ with their tails between their legs.” 

“I felt the black eye was restrained.” Alastor said.

“What your mama is trying to say,” Misyé Dezord interjected, “is that we worry. You’re already almost thirty. The marryin’ age for most trézòr in my day it was sixteen. If you don’t choose a mate, the line of succession in our bevy—

“Falls to aunt Marguerite’s branch,” Alastor finished. “Yes, I know. Cousin Étienne would be thrilled. He’s been angling for that particular honor since we were children.” He sat up.  “Y’all can save all yall’s preachin’. I’d gladly frolic into traffic before I bond with someone I can’t respect.”

Quiet. The fan creaked overhead. Outside, a streetcar rattled down St. Charles Avenue, its bell cutting through the heavy air.

Madamm Dezord’s expression softened, just barely. It was the softening of recognition—of a woman who had, thirty years ago, said nearly the exact same words to her own mama. She knew. She remembered.

But she was also Madamm Dezord, leader of the oldest bevy in Louisiana, and she had a role to play.

“The Benard incident was your last straw, boy.” she said, lowering herself onto the arm of Misyé Dezord’s chair, her posture still rigid, “The old ones are demanding I take measures.”

Alastor’s blood went cold. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning they want me to initiate a Calling.”

“Mama, you cannot.” Alastor said, his voice sharper than he intended. He stood, his linen shirt sticking to his back. “A Calling summons every unbound vayan within a hundred miles to this house, and they all compete in those—those displays like rutting peacocks, and the trézòr is expected to choose one at the end of it. It’s barbaric. It’s archaic. And it’s humiliating.”

“It’s tradition,” Madamm Dezord went on, “This is our way, Alastor. Our culture. Your heritage.” She rose, and now she was close enough that Alastor could smell her perfume—jasmine and bergamot, the scent of every significant moment of his childhood. “The bevy has protected trézòr like you for six generations. We have kept our people safe when the world outside would have devoured us. And you spit on it because you find it inconvenient?”

“Not just because it’s inconvenient, mama, but because I simply couldn’t care less.” Alastor held his ground, even as his heart hammered against his ribs. At twenty-eight, he was a grown man, but his mama still had the ability to make him feel like a child caught stealing pralines. “If I recall correctly, I stopped caring ages ago. From the start, really.” 

Madamm Dezord watched her son carefully, her dark eyes narrowing as he spoke. She respected his point of view—how could she not? She had once stood where he stood now, bristling against tradition, determined to carve her own path. But she also knew Alastor wasn’t being entirely truthful. Beneath his carefully crafted arguments, his disdain for suitors, and his insistence on respect, there lay a truth he refused to acknowledge.

Her son, for all his intelligence and charm, possessed a pride that bordered on arrogance—a pride that thrived on cruelty masked as wit. Alastor enjoyed dismantling the men who came to court him. He reveled in their discomfort, their embarrassment, their wounded egos. Madamm Dezord had seen it too many times to mistake it for anything else. The way her son’s eyes gleamed when he delivered a cutting remark, the slight curve of his lips when a suitor faltered under his scrutiny. It was the pride the Bible warned about—the kind that could damn a soul to hell.

Madamm Dezord sighed, running a hand over her braids. “Alright. Since you like to play games then you should be well aware of the consequences.”

Alastor stiffened, his smirk faltering for the briefest of moments. He opened his mouth to argue, but Madamm Dezord held up a hand, silencing him with a look that brooked no defiance. 

“The bevy needs stability. And whether you like it or not, stability starts with you.”

Before Alastor could muster a clever retort, Madamm Dezord cut him off with a sharp glare. “And don’t think I won’t pull strings as the pack’s vayan to put a stop to that radio career of yours,” she said, her voice laced with steel. “I’ve indulged your rebellion long enough, but patience has its limits. I’ve got a pack to run, Alastor, and you’ve got a duty to fulfill.”

It was a low blow, and they both knew it. Threatening his career—his one and only escape from the suffocating weight of tradition—was dirty, even for her. But Alastor’s mama was a practical woman, and practicality left little room for sentiment. As the pack’s vayan, she couldn’t afford to be soft. Not when the future of their family rested on Alastor’s shoulders.

Alastor glanced at his father, hoping for some semblance of support, but Misyé Dezord merely shrugged. 

“She’s not wrong, Al,” he said, albeit a bit regrettably. “You’re the first trézòr born into this family in three hundred years. Any offspring you conceive with the right vayan would continue to solidify our influence over New Orleans. It’s more than tradition, Alastor—it’s survival.”

Alastor felt the weight of those words settle heavily in his chest. He’d spent his entire life pushing back against expectations, carving out a space where he could breathe. But now, the stakes were higher than ever. His body had already begun to betray him, the first signs of La grand malais creeping in—a deep, bone-weary ache that trézòr were said to suffer if they didn’t conceive before forty. It was a cruel reminder of what he was: a broodmare. A link in a chain of them that stretched back centuries.

He wanted to argue, to insist that there was more to him than his ability to bear children. But the truth was undeniable. His choices weren’t just his own. They never had been.

Madamm Dezord’s gaze softened, just a fraction, as she reached out to cup his cheek. “I’m not asking you to settle, baby,” she said quietly. “I’m asking you to consider the bigger picture. Our legacy and yours. The future of our pack.”

Alastor swallowed hard, his pride warring with the inevitable. He wanted to fight, to resist, but he knew—deep down—that the fight was already over. His mama’s words lingered in the air like the scent of jasmine, heavy with unspoken truths. Beneath her stern exterior, he could see the flicker of fear in her dark eyes—the same fear that gnawed at him in the quiet moments when the ache in his bones grew too sharp to ignore. La grand malais wasn’t just a myth; it was a slow, creeping threat that loomed over his future like a shadow.

The weight of that realization pressed down on him, heavier than the humid New Orleans air. His pride clawed at him, urging him to dig in his heels, to fight for the independence he’d carved out for himself.

Alastor’s jaw tightened. Madamm Dezord watched him carefully, her dark eyes sharp and unyielding. She knew her son—knew him well enough to recognize that pride was both his greatest strength and his worst flaw. She had raised him, after all. She knew how to navigate his ironclad defenses, how to outmaneuver the clever bastard he could be when he dug his heels in. And thank the heavens she was vayan, the head of their pack, because dealing with Alastor required the kind of authority and grit that only a leader could wield.

Madamm Dezord didn’t expect him to concede immediately. But she also knew that her words would linger, festering until Alastor had no choice but to face them. And she’d be there, ready to guide him when he finally did.

But at present, Alastor wasn’t ready to concede defeat.

“Mama. Papa,” Alastor began, his voice slipping into the smooth, transatlantic cadence he reserved for his radio broadcasts. “Perhaps we’re approaching this ‘calling’ business all wrong. What if, instead of clinging to archaic rituals, we revamped the process? Made it more… entertaining? A spectacle worthy of the Garden District. Think about it—callings could be the social event of the season, a celebration rather than a cattle call. We could bring tradition into the modern era, if the old laws allow.”

Madamm Dezord raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with the ghost of a smile. “Is that so? And who, pray tell, would organize this grand spectacle?”

Alastor’s smirk widened. “Why, yours truly, of course. Who better to elevate a calling into something unforgettable?”

Misyé Dezord chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t half enjoy stirring the pot, do you, son?”

“Someone has to keep things interesting,” Alastor replied with a shrug. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in desperate need of a nap. All this talk of suitors is exhausting.”

He retreated to his bedroom, leaving his parents to exchange a knowing look. As soon as his door clicked shut, CeCe abandoned her homework—a half-hearted attempt at multiplication tables—and tiptoed after him. She perched on the edge of his bed, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief.

“So,” she began, her tone dripping with faux innocence. “What are you gonna do about the Calling? You really gonna turn a calling into some big show?”

“Eavesdropping is rude, you know.” Alastor flopped onto the bed, arms spread wide. “Maybe. Wouldn’t it be fun to see those vayan squirm a little? Besides, if I’m going to be paraded around like a prize heifer, I might as well make it worth my while.” Alastor said. “Now, scoot. Grown-up business requires grown-up naps.”

“Al?” CeCe tilted her head, her small face scrunching as she sniffed the air. “You smell… weird. Like, tired-weird. You feelin’ sick or somethin’? Mama always talks about La grand malais—

Alastor cut her off with a laugh, ruffling her curls as she swatted at his hand. “Sick? Me? Never. All that La grand malais talk is pure malarkey! Mama just loves scaring me into behaving.”

CeCe narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms with all the authority a six-year-old could muster. “You sayin’ Mama’s a liar? Bet she’d break you’re neck if you told her that. Even if she was dead. Her ghost would still break your neck.”

“I’m sayin’ Mama’s dramatic,” Alastor corrected, poking her forehead. “And you’re nosy. What’re you, my doctor now?”

“At least I ain’t chasin’ off every vayan who looks your way.” CeCe shot back, sticking out her tongue

“Oh, and I suppose you’ve got a long line of suitors yourself? Last I checked, you can’t even buy a snow cone without Mama’s permission.”

CeCe gasped, her hands flying to her hips. “Nuh uh! I’m vayan like mama, which means I’m the boss of you, trézòr.”

Alastor smirked, leaning down to her level. “Keep dreamin’. I got nearly thirty years on you, cher. You ain’t bossin’ around nothin’ my way.”

He scooped her up in a mock wrestling hold that had her squealing with delight. CeCe wriggled free and scampered off, but Alastor couldn’t shake the thought of that faint, tired scent she’d picked up on him. La grand malais wasn’t real–Alastor refused to believe it—but the ache in his bones wasn’t so easy to ignore.

The next afternoon, Alastor settled into his radio studio, the familiar hum of equipment filling the air. He adjusted his microphone, his smirk sharpening as he leaned into it. 

“Good afternoon, New Orleans,” he began, his transatlantic drawl smooth as silk. “Today, let’s talk about tradition. Specifically, Callings. You know, the tedious social gatherings where vayan strut around like peacocks while trézòr sit politely, pretending not to notice the desperation wafting off them like cheap cologne…Here’s a thought—why not make it more primal? Why not let trézòr bare their teeth alongside the vayan? Why not spill a little blood to prove whose pack is strongest, whose trézòr is worth fighting for? After all, isn’t that what this is supposed to be about? The glory of the pack? The honor of the trézòr?”

He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air. “But no, instead we have… what? Droll little tea parties! What does that say about us? Are we so far removed from our  roots that we’ve forgotten what it means to be strong? To be fierce? Or has wealth and status turned our vayan into simpering accountants, counting their money instead of sharpening their claws?”

The studio was silent except for the faint static of the broadcast, a sound as familiar to Alastor as the hum of cicadas on a summer night. He leaned closer to the microphone, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone, the kind that drew listeners in like moths to a flame. “Here’s the question, New Orleans—What does it mean to be vayan?Premiere? What does it mean to be trézòr? Are we content to let our heritage fade into irrelevance, or will we dare to reclaim it?”

The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with the promise of challenge. Alastor’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Until next time, this is Alastor Dezord, reminding you that the glory of the pack isn’t won with polite words. It’s earned with claws.”

The red light on his mic blinked off, and Alastor sat back, his grin sharp as a blade. Let the old guard clutch their pearls, he thought. Change was coming—whether they liked it or not.

The mysterious caller, Lily, first reached out to Alastor after one of his particularly scathing broadcasts. Her letter arrived wrapped in lavender-scented paper, the fragrance so potent it lingered in his study for days after he opened it. Her words were sharp and witty, cutting through the formalities with a daring frankness that Alastor found refreshing. She agreed with his critique of modern vayan traditions, calling them “a tired dance of ego and pretense” that had long outlived their purpose. But what truly caught Alastor’s attention was her subtle hint at a certain “king” she knew—a vayan who had grown complacent in his power and could use a reminder of his roots. The curiosity sparked in him like a match struck in the dark.

Their correspondence began subtly; letters exchanged with the rhythm of a conversation neither was willing to rush. Lily’s handwriting was bold and uneven, as though she couldn’t be bothered to slow down for neatness. Her humor was earthy, her observations cuttingly astute, and her teasing relentless. She called him “ridiculously handsome” in one letter, then mockingly chided him for letting it go to his head in the next. Alastor found himself grinning as he read her words, her voice so vivid on the page that he could almost hear her laughter curling around the edges of his thoughts.

They met for the first time at Café Du Monde in Jackson Square, the air thick with the scent of powdered sugar and chicory coffee. Lily was stunningly beautiful—tall, blonde, and curvaceous, with a laugh that could fill the square and make heads turn. She greeted Alastor with a playful smirk and a teasing remark about how his radio voice didn’t do his looks justice. She even wondered aloud why Alastor hadn’t snatched up every eligible vayan in the city.

Alastor raised an eyebrow, adjusting his glasses with a practiced nonchalance. “Now if only this city was full to bursting with this “eligible vayan” you speak of.”

Lily chuckled.“It’d be a sin if you were any less fascinating than I imagined you’d be.”

Alastor’s lips curved into a smirk of his own. “My, my, Ms. Lily, aren’t we forward?”

“Oh, please,” she replied, waving a hand dismissively. “You’ve been eviscerating vayan on air for months. I think you can handle a little honesty.”

“Touché,” he conceded, gesturing toward the wrought-iron chair across from him. “Shall we?”

She sat gracefully, her movements fluid and confident. “So, tell me, Alastor,” she began, her tone light but laced with mischief, “why haven’t you found yourself a vayan yet? Or is it that they’re all just too… tame for your tastes?”

He leaned back, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Tame? That’s one way to put it. I prefer to think of them as… uninspired.”

Lily laughed, the sound carrying across the café like a melody. “Uninspired! That’s rich. You do realize you’re the reason half the vayan in New Orleans are questioning their manhood, don’t you?”

“Only half?” Alastor quipped, his grin sharpening. “I must be slipping.”

She shook her head, her golden curls catching the sunlight. “You’re something else, you know that? All that charm, all that wit, and yet you’re still unbound. What gives? Are you holding out for a king or just afraid to settle?”

Alastor’s smirk faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Afraid to settle? Hardly. I’m simply waiting for someone who can match me. Someone who isn’t content to play the same tired game.”

Lily leaned forward, her gaze locking with his. “And what if I told you I know someone who could?”

He arched an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “Someone, you say?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, her tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “A king in his own right, though he’s grown… complacent. I think you’d find him fascinating.”

Alastor tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “And why would you think that?”

“Because,” she said, leaning back with a satisfied smile, “you’re not the only one who enjoys a challenge.”

“Well,” he said finally, his smirk returning in full force, “if this king of yours is half as intriguing as you suggest, then perhaps I’ll have to meet him.”

Lily, it turned out, owned several boutiques across the city. Her boutiques were as bold and unapologetic as she was, filled with pieces that seemed to defy convention—much like their owner. Alastor often found himself stopping by her flagship store on Canal Street, drawn not by the merchandise but by the promise of her sharp wit and the laughter that seemed to echo through the aisles.

One afternoon, Alastor leaned against the counter, arms crossed, as Lily unpacked a shipment of dresses with the kind of irreverence that bordered on sacrilege. She held up a particularly garish piece, her nose scrunched in mock horror.

“Tell me, Alastor,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “what mad genius thought this was a good idea? Is it a dress, or did someone spill paint on a curtain and call it art?”

Alastor smirked, adjusting his glasses with a practiced flick of his wrist. “And here I thought your boutiques were known for their impeccable taste. Clearly, I’ve been misled.”

Lily tossed the dress onto a nearby rack with a dramatic flourish. “Oh, please. If I had my way, I’d burn half the inventory and start fresh. But alas, the world isn’t ready for my vision.”

“Not ready, or not worthy?”

She grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Both, darling. Both.”

Their banter was effortless, a dance of wit and teasing that left no room for pretense. Lily’s irreverence was a breath of fresh air in Alastor’s otherwise stifling world, and he found himself drawn to her in a way that surprised him. She wasn’t looking to court him—she didn’t tiptoe around his pride or try to flatter him into submission. She just got him.

One evening, as they shared a bottle of wine on her balcony overlooking the French Quarter, Lily leaned back in her chair, her laughter echoing into the night. “You know what I love about you, Alastor?” she said, her tone light but laced with sincerity. “You’re full of shit: but you’re the most honest full of shit person I know.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Is that your way of saying you adore me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Well, you’re certainly doing an enough of it for me!” Alastor’s smirk softened into something nearly genuine. “Very few people manage to not bore me to tears. I regret to inform you, Lily, that you may be one of those rare few.” You’re not so bad yourself, Lily. In fact, I’d wager you’re the only person in this city I’d dare to consider mildly entertaining.”

She grinned, raising her glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to not being boring then.”

Alastor clinked his glass against hers, his smirk sharp but his mind wandering. Lily’s cryptic hints about this so-called “king” lingered in his thoughts like a melody he couldn’t place. What kind of vayan, Alastor wondered, needed reminding of what he was? Was he some pampered aristocrat, softened by wealth and privilege? Or perhaps a recluse, hiding from the world behind walls of his own making? Lily’s frustratingly sparse details only stoked his curiosity, leaving him with more questions than answers.

“You know,” Alastor began, his tone casual but laced with intrigue, “you’ve been awfully vague about this king of yours. Care to enlighten me? Or is he some mythical creature, too grand for mortal eyes?”

Lily’s laugh was low and knowing, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, Alastor, where’s the fun in spoiling the surprise? Let’s just say he’s… an acquired taste.”

An acquired taste? Alastor’s eyebrow arched. That could mean anything from a man with a temper sharper than his own to one so dull he needed two cups of chicory coffee just to wake up. The ambiguity gnawed at him, and he couldn’t decide if he found it irritating or exhilarating.

“An acquired taste,” he repeated, leaning back in his chair, his gaze fixed on her. “You’re playing with fire, Lily. Dangerous game, teasing a man like me.”

She shrugged, her smile widening. “Only way to keep you interested, darling. Besides, I think you’ll find him… fascinating.”

The way she lingered on the word sent a flicker of anticipation down Alastor’s spine. Fascinating? That could mean anything from a man with a razor-sharp wit to one who’d challenge Alastor in ways he hadn’t yet imagined. Lily’s silence on the matter only deepened the mystery, and Alastor couldn’t deny the spark of curiosity she’d ignited.

“Well,” he said finally, his smirk returning in full force, “if this king of yours is half as intriguing as you suggest, I suppose I’ll have to meet him.”

Lily’s grin was triumphant, her eyes sparkling with unspoken mischief. “Careful, Alastor. You might just find yourself impressed.”

“And that,” he replied, leaning in slightly, “would be a first.”

She laughed again, the sound echoing into the night, and Alastor couldn’t help but feel a flicker of excitement. Lily was trouble, no doubt about it, but trouble had never looked so enticing.

Madamm Dezord’s “calling” was announced with all the pomp and circumstance befitting the oldest bevy in Louisiana. Invitations were sent to every eligible vayan within a hundred miles, stamped with the Dezord family crest. Misyé Dezord, handled the legalities with the precision of a man who’d spent decades dealing with pack politics. NDAs were drafted, signed, and notarized, ensuring that any injuries—or worse—would be handled with discretion. The stage was set, and the Garden District buzzed with anticipation.

The “calling” itself was a week-long spectacle, a grueling gauntlet of posturing, brawls, and thinly veiled desperation. The vayan arrived in droves, each more eager than the last to prove their worth. Predictably, it devolved into a series of predictable pissing contests, the men squabbling over who had deeper pockets or sharper claws. Alastor watched from the sidelines, his smirk sharp as a blade, thoroughly unimpressed.

When it came time for the challenges, the few vayan who managed to face Alastor quickly learned the folly of underestimating him. He dismantled them with ruthless precision, his cruelty masked as cleverness. One man , a shipping heir from Baton Rouge, was undone by Alastor’s cutting remarks about his failing business ventures. Another , a muscle-bound brute, was bested in a test of strategy, leaving him red-faced and humiliated. But the pièce de résistance was Alastor’s decision to hunt his hunters. Armed with nothing but his wits and a wicked grin, he turned the tables, stalking the vayan through the moonlit bayous, marshes, and forests. One foolish suitor, convinced he had the upper hand, found himself pinned face down in the mud with a switchblade to his throat. Alastor had half a mind to slice him up like tomorrow’s pot roast–and he did (a little). Bleeding and squealing like the stuck pig he was, the would-be hunter ran off and caught the first thing moving out of Louisiana never to return.

By the end of the week, the vayan bowed out—some nursing bruises, others licking wounded pride—but all bound by the NDAs and their own egos. Alastor, ever the victor, leaned against the wrought-iron gates of the Dezord estate, his smirk triumphant. 

“Well, Mama,” he called over his shoulder, “looks like I’m still unbound. What a shock.” 

Madamm Dezord sighed, her hands clasped tightly, worry etched in her dark eyes. Her son was clever, yes, but even cleverness couldn’t outrun La grand malais. Not forever.

One evening, Lily, ever the opportunist, decided to test Alastor’s limits for herself. What began as a playful challenge quickly escalated into a brutal stalemate. Lily’s cunning matched Alastor’s wit, and her strength rivaled his resolve. Their sparring—both verbal and physical—ended in a deadlock. Lily couldn’t pin him down long enough to expose his mating gland, and Alastor, for once, found himself unable to eviscerate her with his usual precision.

“Well, well,” Lily panted, a triumphant grin on her face. “Looks like I’m the first to survive you.”

Alastor smirked, a clever retort on the tip of his tongue. Then his vision swayed and went dark. Lily’s laughter faded as he collapsed into her arms. Lily stayed by his side, her sharp wit replaced by quiet concern, until he stirred hours later. 

“Not a word.” Alastor muttered weakly. 

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Lily nodded, her teasing replaced by something softer.

But it was getting harder to hide. La grand malais was hitting Alastor even more frequently than before and earlier than expected. One day, while live on air, Alastor’s voice faltered mid-sentence. The studio went silent as he slumped forward, the mic catching the faint thud of his body hitting the desk.

It was at Tulane Hospital that Alastor first met Dr. Lucian Morningstar. Short, blonde, and unfairly handsome in his white coat and half-rimmed glasses despite the dark circles under his eyes, Lucian’s vayan scent: crisp apples with a hint of something raw and earthy overwhelmed Alastor the moment he entered the room. 

The radio host was so overwhelmed in fact, that all Alastor could do for an embarrassingly long moment was stare at the handsome, vertically challenged physician. Then Alastor, ever the master of deflection, retorted:

“Well, hello there, Doc! Almost didn’t see you there! Ha ha!”

Dr. Lucian’s eye twitched. “Well, you certainly aren’t hard to find, Mr.—

“Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you! Quite the pleasure!” Alastor grinned. “Although I really gotta hand it to you—

“Charmed, I’m sure. Wait. Hand me what?” Dr. Lucian asked.

Alastor looked at him pityingly. “Anything, really. Isn’t that usually the case for people of your minuscule stature?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t here that. Especially not from a radio host who’s closer to death than his next broadcast. Priories am I right?” Dr. Lucian chuckled. “I’m Dr. Morningstar by the way.”

“Touché, Dr. Lu,” Alastor replied, his voice smooth despite its underlying fatigue. “But I’d rather die on air than live in obscurity. Isn’t that what they say? ‘Go out with a bang?’”

Lucian’s lips twitched, though he kept his expression neutral. “They also say, ‘You can’t make a comeback if you’re six feet under.’” He adjusted his glasses, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he glanced at a chart in his hand. “Your vitals are a little shaky. Well, more than a little shaky. You’re a trézòr—a rare gender but definitely one twice as susceptible to exhaustion. Especially with you nearing middle age. I can see that although you don’t require suppressants and maintain a balanced lifestyle, you’re still starting to show symptoms of—

“La grand malais. Yes yes, I’m aware.” Alastor interrupted. “I suppose you’re here to inform me that my decision to voluntarily abstain from childbearing for so long as inevitably resulted in my current condition?”

“Well…sort of. But that’s your choice.” Dr. Lucian shrugged. “I could prescribe you some supplements to ease the fatigue.

“No thank you, Doc.” Alastor laughed, though it was more of a weak rasp than his usual confident laugh. “I prefer living on the edge. The thrill of it. It’s what keeps life interesting, darling!”

“And what keeps doctors employed,” Lucian shot back, his tone dry but laced with a hint of playfulness. He glanced down at his clipboard again, flipping through the pages with practiced efficiency. “Though, in your case, I’d argue you’re more interested in testing the limits of my patience than your own mortality.”

Alastor’s smirk widened, a flicker of his usual self returning despite his pallor. “Patience, doctor? I wasn’t aware that was a requirement for your profession. I thought it was all about ‘saving lives’ and ‘do no harm.’”

Lucian leveled him with a look, his dark eyes sharp and unimpressed. “And yet, here you are, doing your best to complicate mine. Trézòr or not, Mr. Dezord, you’re not invincible.” His tone softened ever so slightly, though the edge remained. “Take it from someone who’s seen far too many people gamble with their health—it’s not a game you win.”

“Well, Dr. Lu,” Alastor said, “if I’m to take advice from anyone, I suppose you’re as good as any. Though, I must warn you—I’m not exactly known for following orders.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” Lucian replied, his tone dry but laced with a warmth that sent a shiver down Alastor’s spine. “But for what it’s worth, Mr. Dezord, I’d rather not see you back here anytime soon.” He paused, his smirk widening ever so slightly. “At least, not without a good reason.” Lucian’s smirk softened into something almost genuine. He headed for the door, tossing one last remark over his shoulder. “I prescribed you those vitamins anyways. Take ‘em once a day for the next two weeks. Get some rest, Mr. Dezord. You’re going to need it.”

As the door clicked shut, Alastor leaned back against the pillows, his smirk lingering but his mind wandering. Lucian Morningstar was unlike anyone he’d encountered before—sharp, unyielding, and disarmingly honest. For the first time in years, Alastor found himself intrigued by someone who wasn’t afraid to challenge him. And, perhaps more importantly, someone who didn’t seem particularly impressed by him.

It was a dangerous thought, but danger had always been Alastor’s specialty.

From then onwards, Alastor’s health improved just by getting the barest whiff of Lucian’s scent—a fact he took immense pride in, though he’d sooner let his mama organize another calling than admit it aloud. It wasn’t just the crisp apple and earthy undertones that invigorated him; it was the way Lucian’s presence seemed to cut through the fog of his La grand malais, leaving Alastor sharper, clearer, and oddly... lighter.

Despite their busy schedules, Alastor found ways to visit Lucian. It became something of a habit: Alastor striding through the hospital corridors like he owned the place while Lucian tried (and failed) to maintain his professional composure.

“What’s the prognosis, doc?” Alastor once asked, leaning against the nurses’ station. “Still fatal, or am I just indestructible?”

Lucian rolled his eyes. “Your ego might be the real diagnosis,” he returned amusedly. “Keep that up, and I might have to ban you from my hospital.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t dare, darling! You’d miss me too much,” Alastor grinned. “Who else would keep you on your toes?”

“Certainly not the parade of patients you insist on interrupting,” Lucian replied dryly, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed his amusement. He adjusted his glasses, a nervous habit Alastor had come to recognize, and sighed. “Honestly, Alastor, don’t you have a radio show to host? Or perhaps a Calling to avoid?”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” Alastor countered, pushing off the counter. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to get bored. Thoughtful as always, aren’t I?”

Lucian snorted, shaking his head as he scribbled something on his clipboard—though Alastor suspected it was more to hide his smile than anything else. “Thoughtful isn’t the word I’d use,” he muttered.

“And yet, here you are, still indulging me,” Alastor said, leaning in slightly. “What does that say about you, Doctor Morningstar?”

Lucian’s gaze flicked up to meet Alastor’s, his dark eyes and oh—was Dr. Morningstar blushing?

“It says I have the patience of a saint,” the physician replied, his tone drier than the Sahara. “And a masochistic streak I’d rather not examine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have actual patients to attend to.”

“Of course, doctor,” Alastor replied, stepping aside with a mock bow. 

As Lucian walked away, Alastor watched him go with no small amount of glee. For a man who prided himself on his detachment, Lucian Morningstar was proving to be a fascinating contradiction—one Alastor couldn’t resist unraveling, quip by quip, visit by visit.

Their banter became a staple of Alastor’s visits, often punctuated by Lucian’s guilty pleasure—soap operas. The man was a sucker for over-the-top romance, complete with dramatic music and plot twists so ridiculous even Alastor couldn’t resist teasing him. 

“Tell me, doctor,” he drawled during one particularly absurd episode, “does your medical expertise extend to diagnosing why Shelia’s evil twin is suddenly in love with her husband’s long-lost brother? Or is that just a case of bad writing?”

Lucian groaned but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his lips. “Don’t mock it until you’ve survived an eighteen-hour shift. Sometimes, absurdity is the best medicine.”

“You don’t say.”

That was the first time Alastor genuinely found himself smiling at the older man. Soon, he wasn’t above feigning exhaustion here and there just to get Lucian’s attention. The doctor saw right through it but never called him out, secretly relieved by the distraction. Between unruly patients and the grueling demands of his profession, Lucian found himself looking forward to the trézòr’s visits—a rare bright spot in an otherwise exhausting routine.

Their connection deepened through handwritten notes and letters, exchanged with the kind of old-fashioned charm that suited Alastor perfectly. The first time Alastor called Lucian from an old candlestick phone, the doctor couldn’t believe it.

 “Who even owns one of these anymore?” Lucian had smiled as he examined it 

“A gentleman with impeccable taste,” Alastor replied, entranced.

One evening, Alastor showed up at Lucian’s doorstep with a bag of his father’s famous fried catfish, jambalaya, and bread pudding for dessert. Lucian raised an eyebrow but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “What’s this? Bribery now?”

“Call it a gesture of goodwill, my dear. Can’t have my favorite doctor wasting away on hospital fare.” Alastor declared proudly.

They shared the meal in Lucian’s cozy kitchen, laughter echoing off the walls as they traded jokes and stories. Lucian couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed this much—or eaten this well. Afterward, they stepped out onto the balcony for a smoke, the cooler autumn air nipping at their skin. Lucian playfully held the lighter out of reach when Alastor reached for it, grinning as he lit his own cigarette first before finally lighting Alastor’s.

The trézòr rolled his eyes but didn’t comment, exhaling a plume of smoke into the crisp night air. Lucian couldn’t help but notice how the moonlight complimented Alastor’s debonair profile. How much lovelier it made Alastor’s dark eyes look.

“Those damned eyes of yours,” Lucian murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “They’re… prettier than the leading man in that other soap I watch.”

Lucian realized too late that he’d said it out loud. Fuck.

Alastor’s lips curved. “Well, Doctor Morningstar, I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Though, let’s be honest, you’re handsome enough yourself—when you’re not frowning.”

Lucian’s cheeks burned, and he took a long drag from his cigarette to hide his flustered expression. Damn him.

That night, Lucian dreamed of the small beauty mark just above Alastor’s lip and how it might taste beneath his own. He imagined the faint curve of Alastor’s smirk, the sharp glint in his dark eyes, and the way his voice dipped into that teasing drawl that sent shivers down Lucian’s spine. The dream was vivid—too vivid—and when he woke, he was drenched in a cold sweat, his heart pounding like he’d just sprinted through the entire length of Lake Pontchartrain. Damn it! Alastor wasn’t even here, and yet he’d managed to invade Lucian’s dreams like he owned them.

Groaning, Lucian stumbled to the bathroom and cranked the shower to freezing, letting the icy water shock him back to his senses. He stood there, shivering, trying to banish the lingering warmth of the dream—the warmth that had felt so real, so wrong. Alastor made him laugh, sure, but he also made Lucian’s pulse race in ways it hadn’t in years. Worse yet, he’d somehow managed to worm his way into Lucian’s daily routine, ensuring he ate three meals a day like some kind of overly attentive caretaker. Did that mean…? No, of course not. They weren’t like that. At least, not yet. Or possibly not ever. The thought gnawed at Lucian, twisting in his mind until he felt like a teenager again—awkward, uncertain, and far too aware of his own traitorous heartbeat.

What was it about Alastor that got under his skin so effortlessly? He was a doctor—a man of logic, not impulse. Alastor was… well, Alastor. Clever, infuriating, and far too charming for his own good. But that didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. And yet, the dream lingered, stubborn and unshakable. It’s just a crush, Lucian told himself firmly as he toweled off. Crushes were harmless—brief distractions that faded with time. Never mind that Alastor had a way of making time feel irrelevant whenever he was around.

By the time he dressed and headed out the door, Lucian had almost convinced himself he was over it. But then Alastor appeared on the street corner, sauntering toward him with that damn smirk and a coffee in hand. The trézòr’s eyes lit up when he saw him, and Lucian’s resolve crumbled faster than he could say, “Good morning.” Damn him indeed.

“Morning, Lu,” Alastor greeted, his voice smooth as silk, handing over the coffee. “You look like you need this.”

Lucian took the coffee with a mumbled thanks, silently cursing himself for the way his stomach flipped at the sight of Alastor. The trézòr’s grin widened, as if he could sense Lucian’s internal turmoil, and he leaned in slightly and whispered:

“Don’t worry, Lu, I’m here to mocha your day better.”

Lucian froze mid-sip, his eyes widening comically before a snort escaped him involuntarily. The laughter bubbled up so fast and unexpectedly that coffee shot out of his nose, splattering down the front of his white coat. He gasped, mortified, while Alastor’s grin turned downright triumphant.

“Alastor!” Lucian choked out between coughs, wiping his face with the sleeve of his coat, his cheeks flushing crimson. “That—that was—god, I hate you!”

Alastor, completely unrepentant, patted Lucian’s back with the kind of smug satisfaction only he could muster. “Oh, come now, Dr. Morningstar. Surely a little coffee spillage is a small price to pay for my latte humor.”

Lucian groaned, shaking his head, though he couldn’t quite stop the laughter from bubbling up again. 

It was all too natural, the way Alastor could make Lucian laugh. The way the younger man could make Lucian feel that for once, he didn’t have to keep up his carefully crafted mask of perfect composure. It planted a foolish seed of hope in the physician’s heart that sprouted silly roots. None of this could end well for him.

Alastor’s fingers brushed his as they walked together. Their shoulders touched every now and again. Each time, Lucian Morningstar fell a little harder than he did before.

I think I love you. Those words sprang to the surface of the physician’s mind every time he so much as thought of Alastor. 

Then one morning, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, Lucian walked to work with Alastor. He was so out of it that he nearly stepped into traffic, only to be yanked back by Alastor’s firm grip. The trézòr didn’t let go, holding his hand the rest of the way, his grip warm and steady despite the crisp autumn air. Lucian’s heart raced, though he told himself it was just the adrenaline from the near miss.

Just before stepping into the hospital, Lucian hesitated, his thoughts swirling in a chaotic jumble. The cool morning air did little to clear his mind as he glanced at Alastor, who stood beside him with his usual effortless poise. Lucian’s heart pounded in his chest, and he felt absurdly out of his depth. He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again, the words stumbling out clumsily. “Alastor, I… what are we? I mean, this—

Alastor raised an eyebrow, his smirk already forming before Lucian could finish the sentence. With a flourish, he produced a neatly packaged breakfast from behind his back—warm beignets dusted with powdered sugar and a cup of chicory coffee, still steaming. “Goodness, Lu,” he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement, “you’re awfully dramatic so early in the morning. Here.”

Lucian blinked, momentarily distracted by the aroma wafting from the bag. “That’s not— he started, but Alastor cut him off with a soft laugh, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. It was brief but the warmth of it lingered long after Alastor pulled away.

“Does that answer your ridiculous question, Lu?” Alastor teased. 

Lucian wished he could say that it most certainly did—but he didn’t want to assume anything when it came to Alastor. It was now or never.

“Oh fuck it. I’m doing this.” Lucian began, his fingers tightening around the coffee cup, “Just so you know it’s been a long time since I’ve felt like this with anyone. I know we’re not exactly…well uh…whatever the hell we are but I can’t help it since it’s you, Al. I can be super affectionate. It hasn’t always gone over well with my past partners. Because…uh I guess I’m too stubborn, too weird, too—

Alastor cuts him off with another kiss, this one lingering just long enough to make Lucian’s pulse stutter. “I don’t mind,” he murmurs against Lucian’s cheek. “You’re one of the few people who can keep up with me without getting annoyed and giving up.”

The words strike Lucian like a lightning bolt. Those are exactly the words I was trying to say to him. The realization left him momentarily breathless; sent warmth flooding into his chest.

Alastor pulled back slightly, studying Lucian’s face.  Then, as if struck by his own revelation, he blinked. 

“Huh.” The younger man said.

“What?” Lucian asked.

“My illness,” Alastor mused. “It hasn’t come back since I met you.”

The weight of that hung between them, heavier than the morning humidity. La grand malais didn’t just fade—not without reason. Lucian’s throat tightened. Before he could say anything Alastor added:

 “Guess that means you’re stuck with me, Dr. Morningstar.”

Lucian huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn.”

“Mm. Terrible fate.” Alastor’s grin was unrepentant. “Now, go save lives. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

And just like that, the moment shifted—but the sweetness of it lingered, earthy and succulent like chicory. 

The next day, Lily congratulated Alastor and Lucian over lunch at Café Du Monde, her grin as sharp as ever.

“Well, well,” she drawled, leaning back in her chair with the ease of someone who knew she held all the cards, “looks like my matchmaking skills are still top-notch.” 

“Lily,my dear, I knew you were up to something.” Alastor rolled his eyes; smile undeniably fond.

“Sure you did.” Lily’s gaze shifted to Lucian.

“See, Lu? I told you before didn’t I?” She said. “That you’d eventually meet your match?”

“That was like twenty years ago!” Lucian laughed and shook his head. “I had no idea you were being serious back then. I didn’t even believe it myself.”

Lily noted Alastor’s look of confusion and clarified:

“We used to be married. For business reasons, of course. But even after we got divorced, I worried over rather or not Lu would be able to move on.”

“Thankfully I did. I have.” Lucian held Alastor’s hand and kissed it. “I see your vision now.”

“Of course you do.” Lily agreed. “From now on, you better be happy. Both of you.”

She didn’t wait for a response, though. With a wink and a playful tap on the table, she rose, leaving the two men to their beignets and the unspoken promise of whatever came next. 

Alastor chose Sunday supper to break the news to his mama. The moment Madamm Dezord set the pot on the table, he cleared his throat—loudly—and declared:

 “Dr. Lucian Morningstar and I are courting.”

CeCe froze mid-bite, her eyes wide as saucers. Misyé Dezord choked on his wine, while Madamm Dezord’s spoon clattered into the pot. 

“Since when?” Madamm Dezord asked. “The first time you landed yourself at his hospital or every single time you set foot in there after that? I ain’t blind, boy. I knew you weren’t hanging around Tulane University for nothin.”

Grinning like the proverbial cat that got the cream, Alastor leaned  back in his chair.

“You know me too well, mama.” He said. “Trézòr like me don’t settle for just anyone. I had to make sure Lucian was worth my time.” His smile sharpened. “And, as it turns out, he’s remarkably… persistent.”

CeCe snorted around a mouthful of food. “Persistent? Sounds like he’s just as crazy as you!” She said. “Guess that makes y’all perfect for each other.”

Madamm Dezord shot CeCe a warning look, but the twinkle in her eye betrayed her amusement.

 “Alastor, baby, I’m happy for you. Lucian’s a good man—smart, hardworkin’, and he’s survived you so far. That’s no small feat.” She paused, her gaze sharpening again. “But don’t think for a second that I’ll go easy on him just because he’s courtin’ you.”

Misyé Dezord chuckled, raising his glass of wine in a mock toast. “Here’s to Lucian—may he have the patience of a sain. Lord knows he’ll need it.”

They all laughed. It was a day. It was an even better one when Lucian, dressed in his best suit and tie, nervously stood on Madamm Dezord’s porch and (with Alastor’s encouragement) personally introduced himself. 

Then, just like that, ten years flew by.

It wasn’t always easy: Alastor’s sharp tongue and Lucian’s dry wit often clashed but there was a rhythm to their chaos, a harmony that neither could deny. Alastor still delighted in teasing Lucian mercilessly, but the bite in his words had softened. Lucian, for his part, had learned to navigate Alastor’s moods with a patience that bordered on saintly, though he’d never admit it aloud.

By the time Alastor’s first heat arrived, the radio host, now thirty-eight, found himself more prepared than he’d ever imagined. Ten years of knowing Lucian—of seeing him, truly—had softened the edges of his pride, just enough to let the possibility of forever settle in his chest. He was ready. Ready to make it official, ready to let Lucian claim him as his own in every way that mattered. But it wasn’t just about bonding; it was about the life they could build together; the family Alastor had never dared to admit he wanted. The thought of it—of little fawns with Lucian’s smile and Alastor’s cleverness—filled the trézòr with a feverish hope that surprised Alastor himself.

His and Lucian’s courtship had been a slow, gradual thing. But now, with his heat hitting him like a storm, Alastor couldn’t deny the pull any longer. He wanted Lucian—not just as a partner, but as his vayan.

“Lu, my dear ,” Alastor said that very evening. “How do you feel about fawns?”

Lucian blinked, caught off guard. “Fawns?”

Alastor loosened his bowtie. “As many as you can give me.”

Lucian growled approvingly and pulled his mate closer then hesitated. 

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. “We’ve taken our time exploring what you’re comfortable with and what you’re not. And it’s never... progressed much beyond some fooling around. I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

Alastor’s smile softened. “I’m sure,” he nodded. “We’ve had ten years to figure this out, Lucian. And besides, I know you love children. I wouldn’t mind raising a few of our own, as long as it’s something you want too.”

Lucian stared at him, wide-eyed. “You’d really do that?” he asked. “For me?”

Alastor stroked Lucian’s cheek. “Not just for you, darling. But for me too of course!”

Lucian’s breath hitched, his heart pounding so loudly he was certain Alastor could hear it. He was gobsmacked. Insanely happy—and more than a little turned on. But a thousand questions swirled in his mind. How were they supposed to navigate Alastor’s first heat? Should they take it slow? What if his instincts as a vayan overwhelmed him and he accidentally hurt Alastor in the process? What if—

Alastor silenced Lucian’s racing thoughts with a kiss, deep and commanding, his lips a firm reminder of who was truly in control. When he pulled back, his dark eyes gleamed with determination. 

“First,” Alastor began, “you’re going to mark me and get bonded to me, like all those other useless vayan failed to do in the past.” He pulled his bowtie completely loose. “Then, you’re going to make love to me the way I want. And after that—Alastor paused, his smirk widening into something almost predatory, “—you’re going to knot me and make me your mate in more than just name. As many times as it takes to get me pregnant.”

Lucian’s breath caught in his throat, his hands instinctively tightening on Alastor’s hips. “Alastor,” he said, voice thick with desire and uncertainty, “are you sure? This is… a lot. I don’t want to—

“That’s quite enough prattling, darling.” Alastor leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Lucian’s ear as he whispered, “Unless, of course, you’re having second thoughts?”

“Hardly.” Lucian growled.

He tilted Alastor’s head to the side, exposing the slender column of his throat, and pressed his lips to the soft skin just above Alastor’s collarbone. Lucian’s teeth grazed the spot where his mark would go, and Alastor shuddered, his breath hitching in anticipation.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Lu.” Alastor murmured, his voice trembling ever so slightly. 

Lucian didn’t.

The kiss had started as it always did—soft, tentative, and familiar. But this time, something shifted. Lucian’s hands slid from Alastor’s waist to his back, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss with a hunger that made Alastor’s breath catch. The warmth of Lucian’s lips, the teasing brush of his tongue, stoked a fire in Alastor he hadn’t even known smoldered ithin him. He shuddered, his fingers tangling in Lucian’s hair as he kissed him back with matching fervor.

“Lucian,” Alastor murmured between kisses, his voice trembling with something he couldn’t quite name.

Lucian didn’t respond with words. Instead, he broke the kiss just long enough to scoop Alastor up effortlessly, carrying him bridal-style toward the bed. Alastor’s heart raced, his arms looping around Lucian’s neck as he clung to him. The weightlessness of being held, the way Lucian’s grip was firm yet tender, left him breathless.

When they reached the bed, Lucian laid him down gently, his blue eyes black with desire as he hovered above his mate. 

“Sweetheart. Alastor.” Lucian whispered reverently.

Alastor’s pulse thundered in his ears as he reached up, pulling Lucian back into another heated kiss. This was new. This hunger, this desperate need but it felt right. For the first time, Alastor understood what it meant to want not just in theory, but in practice. And he wanted Lucian with a ferocity that left no room for doubt.

Lucian’s hands trembled slightly as he began to undress, his eyes never leaving Alastor. His coat was the first to go, tossed carelessly onto a nearby chair. His shirt followed, fabric sliding over his pale, lean frame before pooling on the floor. Alastor watched, transfixed, as Lucian’s broad shoulders and defined chest were revealed, the faint trail of golden hair leading down to the waistband of his pants.

Then it was Alastor’s turn. Lucian stepped closer, his hands moving to the buttons of Alastor’s shirt. Each button undone felt like a revelation, the linen parting to expose the warm brown skin beneath. Alastor shivered as Lucian’s fingertips brushed against him, his breath hitching when the shirt finally fell away.

Lucian drank in the sight of his mate: Alastor’s lithe form—his slim waist, the delicate curve of his hips, and his dark nipples, already pebbled in the cool air of the room. Lucian’s gaze traveled lower, to the slick gathering between Alastor’s thighs, glistening on his untouched cunt.

Lucian laid Alastor down gently on the bed, the soft sheets cool against his heated skin. Lucian leaned in, capturing Alastor’s lips in a kiss that was tenderly possessive. He kissed the mole near Alastor’s mouth, a spot he’d always found endearing, before trailing kisses down his neck, lingering at the hollow of his throat.

Alastor gasped as Lucian’s lips descended further, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Each kiss felt like a brand, marking him as Lucian’s, and Alastor arched into the sensation, craving more. When Lucian’s tongue flicked over one of his nipples, a sharp, shuddering moan escaped Alastor’s lips, his hands clutching helplessly at the sheets. The sensation was electric, sending waves of pleasure radiating through his body, and he couldn’t suppress the tremors that followed.

Lucian lingered there at his mate’s chest, his mouth teasing the delicate bud with agonizing precision. He laved attention over the sensitive peak, alternating between gentle licks and firm suction until Alastor’s chest heaved with shallow breaths. When Lucian moved to the other nipple, Alastor whimpered, his back arching off the bed as the pleasure intensified. 

"Lucian," he gasped.

Alastor couldn’t seem to form any other sound.

Lucian’s hand slid down Alastor’s stomach, his fingers tracing a deliberate path that left Alastor trembling with anticipation. The first touch between his legs was hesitant, almost reverent, as if Lucian were discovering something sacred. Alastor’s breath hitched, his hips lifting instinctively, seeking more contact. Lucian’s fingers lingered there, brushing lightly, teasingly, before finally curling inward to find the tender bud of his clit.

At the first direct touch, Alastor gasped, his body arching off the bed as a jolt of pleasure surged through him. It was foreign yet electrifying, a sensation he’d never allowed himself to fully feel before. Lucian’s thumb circled the sensitive nub slowly, experimentally, as if mapping out the contours of Alastor’s pleasure. The pace was maddening, deliberate, designed to draw out every possible reaction. Alastor’s hands tangled in the sheets, his nails digging into the fabric as he fought to keep himself grounded.

“Lucian,” Alastor shuddered,

Lucian didn’t need to ask what he wanted—the way Alastor’s body moved against his hand was answer enough. The pressure increased, the rhythm quickening just enough to tease the edge of satisfaction without letting Alastor tip over. Alastor’s legs trembled, his thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to control the overwhelming sensations coursing through him. 

“Please,” Alastor choked out, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing and the positively lewd sound of Lucian’s fingers rubbing him just right.

The rhythm shifted, becoming firmer, more insistent, and Alastor cried out, his back arching as waves of pleasure crashed over him. Lucian didn’t relent, his fingers working with ruthless precision, coaxing Alastor toward his first real orgasm. Every touch was deliberate, every movement calculated to drive Alastor higher, until his body tensed and shuddered, his release a burst of white-hot ecstasy that left him gasping.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Lucian growled, his voice low and commanding. “Come on. Let go for me.”

Alastor’s legs trembled violently as pleasure crashed over him in relentless waves, his body jerking and tensing before finally going slack in Lucian’s arms. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale shuddering through him like the aftershocks of an earthquake. Lucian didn’t let up, his fingers continuing their relentless assault, coaxing Alastor through the aftershocks with a precision that bordered on cruel. Every touch sent fresh sparks of pleasure ricocheting through Alastor’s oversensitive nerves, leaving him writhing and whimpering, unable to escape the onslaught.

“Lucian,” Alastor choked out, his voice hoarse and broken, a plea tangled in the syllables of his name. “Please, I can’t—” His words dissolved into a high-pitched whine as Lucian’s thumb circled his clit once more, the pressure just enough to tip him back into the edge of ecstasy. Lucian’s eyes bore into him, blue depths darkened with a possessive hunger that left no room for argument.

“You can,” Lucian growled, his voice low and commanding, a note of triumph threading through the words. “You’re doing so well, mon trézòr. Just let go for me.” His fingers moved with unrelenting precision, refusing to grant Alastor even a moment’s respite. The pleasure was downright blinding, a maelstrom of sensation that left Alastor shaking and gasping, his body caught in the throes of something he could no longer control.

Alastor’s back arched off the bed yet again , his fingers clawing at the sheets as another wave of pleasure crashed over him, sharper and more intense than the last. His vision blurred, the room spinning around him as Lucian’s relentless touch drove him higher, closer to the brink. He could feel the tension coiling in his core, a tight, unbearable pressure that demanded release. When it finally broke, it was with a force that left him utterly shattered.

“That’s it,” Lucian murmured.

Alastor’s body went limp, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, his skin flushed and glistening with sweat. Lucian leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to Alastor’s forehead, his lips lingering before pulling back, his blue eyes alight with something akin to wonder. 

“I’ve dreamed of this,” The physician admitted, a little bashfully. “Of hearing you come undone like that. Seeing you like this—shaking, gasping, mine—it’s better than anything I could have imagined.”

Alastor’s eyelids fluttered, exhaustion tugging at him, but Lucian’s words stirred something deep within him. He reached up, his fingers brushing against Lucian’s jaw, and whispered:

“Show me what else you’ve dreamed of.”

Lucian’s lips curved into a wicked grin, his eyes darkening with renewed hunger. “As you wish, my treasure.” He shifted down the bed, his hands sliding under Alastor’s thighs as he gently parted them. Alastor shivered as Lucian’s breath ghosted over his slick, trembling cunt, the warmth of his mate’s proximity sending sparks of anticipation through him.

When Lucian’s tongue finally made contact, Alastor’s back arched off the bed, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. Lucian was relentless, his tongue circling Alastor’s oversensitive clit with a precision that bordered on cruel. The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave that crashed over Alastor without mercy. He cried out, his fingers tangling in Lucian’s hair as he pulled him closer, urging him on. Every flick of Lucian’s tongue sent sparks of electricity shooting through Alastor’s body, leaving him trembling and gasping for air.

Lucian’s hands gripped Alastor’s thighs, holding him in place as he devoured him with a hunger that left no room for escape. His tongue traced slow, deliberate circles around Alastor’s clit, each stroke designed to drive him closer to the edge. Alastor’s hips jerked uncontrollably, his body responding to Lucian’s touch with a ferocity that surprised even him. 

“Lucian!” he gasped, his voice breaking on a sob as the pleasure became almost too much to bear.

Lucian didn’t relent. He paused only long enough to glance up at Alastor, his grey-blue eyes darkened with possessive hunger. 

“Shh, that’s it, baby,” he murmured, his breath hot against Alastor’s slick cunt. “Let me taste you.” 

His words were a command, not a request, and Alastor couldn’t have resisted even if he wanted to. Lucian’s tongue returned to its task, this time with renewed intensity. He kissed, licked, and suckled at Alastor’s sensitive bud as if it were the sweetest delicacy, and Alastor’s cries grew louder with every passing second.

The pleasure built rapidly, a coil of tension tightening in Alastor’s core until he thought he might unravel at any moment. Lucian’s tongue flicked over his clit with merciless precision, each movement sending Alastor spiraling closer to the brink. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but feel. His body was no longer his own, completely at the mercy of Lucian’s skillful mouth. “I can’t— Alastor choked out, his voice trembling with desperation.

“You can,” Lucian growled, his voice muffled against Alastor’s skin. “Give it to me.”

His tongue dipped lower, teasing the entrance of Alastor’s cunt before returning to his clit with relentless focus. The dual sensations were almost too much, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Alastor’s legs trembled violently, his fingers clutching at Lucian’s hair as he teetered on the edge of ecstasy.

Then, with one final stroke of Lucian’s tongue, Alastor shattered. His body convulsed as the orgasm tore through him, waves of pleasure crashing over him with unrelenting force. He cried out, a broken, wordless sound that was half Lucian’s name and half a sob. Lucian didn’t stop, his tongue continuing to coax every last bit of pleasure from Alastor’s trembling body until he finally went limp, utterly spent.

Lucian lifted his head, his lips glistening with Alastor’s slick, and smirked up at him. “Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re perfect, Al.”

Then Lucian positioned himself between Alastor’s thighs, his hands gripping his mate’s hips as he guided himself to the slick, waiting heat of Alastor’s cunt. He entered him slowly, inch by agonizing inch, his eyes never leaving Alastor’s face. The stretch was exquisite, a perfect blend of pleasure and pressure that left Alastor gasping.

“Too slow,” Alastor hissed, nails digging into Lucian’s shoulders with enough force to leave crescent-shaped marks. 

His body was a coil of tension, every nerve alight with a desperate craving for more. The delicious stretch of Lucian inside him was maddening, teasing, but not enough—not nearly enough. Alastor’s breath hitched, his hips lifting instinctively, seeking deeper, firmer contact. He wrapped his long legs around Lucian’s waist, locking him in place, and pulled him closer with a sharp, desperate tug.

 “Faster, Lucian. Please.”

Lucian growled low in his throat, a sound that sent shivers cascading down Alastor’s spine. His grey-blue eyes darkened, pupils dilating with a possessive hunger that bordered on feral. He obliged, his hips snapping forward with a force that drove Alastor up the bed, his back arching off the mattress as a choked cry escaped his lips. Each thrust was deeper, harder, more deliberate than the last, and Alastor reveled in the way Lucian’s body moved against his, the way their skin slid together in a slick, intoxicating rhythm.

Alastor’s grip tightened, his nails raking down Lucian’s back as he clung to him, pulling him closer still. 

“Yes!” Alastor gasped. “Just like that—Lucian, don’t stop!”

His hips moved in sync with Lucian’s, each thrust driving him closer to the edge, until he was trembling, gasping, utterly lost in the storm of sensation.

Lucian leaned down, his lips brushing against Alastor’s ear, his breath hot and unsteady. 

“Mine. All mine.”  The vayan growled low and raw. “Every inch of you. Every. Inch.” Lucian’s teeth grazed the sensitive skin of Alastor’s neck, the promise—or threat—of a mark sending shivers down his mate’s spine. 

“Yours,” Alastor choked out, his voice breaking on the word. 

That seemed to ignite something primal in Lucian. His thrusts grew rougher, more erratic, his control fraying at the edges as he drove Alastor closer to the brink. The bed creaked beneath them, the sound muffled by the slick, desperate rhythm of their joining and Alastor’s cries, each one sharper, more urgent than the last.

Alastor’s legs tightened around Lucian’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer, as if he couldn’t bear even a fraction of distance between them. His nails raked down Lucian’s back, leaving faint red trails in their wake, marking him in return. 

Lucian’s  thrusts became rougher, more erratic, as if he were unraveling at the seams. Alastor’s body responded in kind, his hips lifting to meet every thrust, his cries growing louder with every movement. 

“What’s that?” Lucian taunted, his voice rough and teasing, each word dripping with possessive hunger. His hips snapped forward with brutal precision, driving Alastor deeper into the mattress. “Gonna come for me again, baby? Don’t you dare hold back.”

Alastor tried to respond, but all that escaped his lips was a broken moan. His body was a trembling mess, every nerve alight with sensation, and he could barely think, let alone form words.

“Grip me tighter,” Lucifer demanded darkly. “Just like that. Don’t be shy—give it to me, sweetheart. Come.”

Alastor’s back arched hard, a high-pitched cry tearing from his throat as another orgasm ripped through him. His vision blurred, his body convulsing as waves of ecstasy crashed over him, leaving him trembling and gasping in their wake. Lucian’s name was a broken sob on his lips, a plea and a prayer all at once.

And Lucian wasn’t done with him yet.

Finally, with one last, brutal thrust, Lucian sank his teeth into Alastor’s neck, marking him as his own. Alastor cried out, his body convulsing as another orgasm tore through him, leaving him shaking and gasping. Lucian’s knot locked them together, and Alastor could feel the warmth of his release flooding his womb, a sensation that left him dizzy and utterly claimed. They stayed like that, tangled together, as the world around them faded away, leaving only the two of them, bound together in every way that mattered.

Several weeks later, they discovered that Alastor was indeed carrying not one, but three of Lucian’s fawns.

Three.

Lucian could hardly believe it! He’d grab his stethoscope often and press it to Alastor’s washboard flat belly, listening for their children’s heartbeat no matter how early Alastor that it was for that. Lucian didn’t care. He fell even deeper in love with his mate and told anybody in New Orleans who would listen that he was going to be a father. That he’d finally been properly mated to the light of his life. 

The bigger Alastor’s belly got, the more over the moon Lucian Morningstar became. There wasn’t a soul in all creation as happy as he was. As besotted as he was.

Sunrises. Sunsets. Stethoscopes and three heartbeats growing stronger by the day. Alastor sleeping on his side while Lucian felt their fawns move inside his mate right beneath his palm: a kick here. A kick there. 

The children would come any day now. In the meantime, Alastor preened under his mate’s attention like the vain, pretty thing he was.

The first contraction, when it finally came, pulled Alastor right out of a deep sleep. He opened his eyes to the pale morning light filtering through the lace curtains of their bedroom. The clock on the nightstand read 6:46 a.m. Beside Alastor, Lucian lay on his stomach, one arm draped possessively across Alastor’s swollen middle, his white-blond hair a disheveled halo against the pillow. His bare back rose and fell in the steady rhythm of deep sleep.

Alastor lay still for a moment, cataloging the sensation. Not pain, exactly. Something closer to a gathering—a tightening of muscles he could not name, a pressure that built and crested and then released so slowly he might have imagined it.

He did not wake Lucian. Not yet.

The second contraction came twelve minutes later, while Alastor was brushing his teeth at the bathroom sink. He gripped the porcelain edge with both hands and breathed through it the way the midwife his mama had carefully selected had taught him. 

Slow inhale through the nose. Slower exhale through the mouth. When it passed, he straightened up and met his own gaze in the mirror.

His brown eyes were very calm.

“All right,” Alastor said to his reflection. “All right, then. We’re finally doing this. We’re doing this…”

He walked back into the bedroom, one hand braced against the small of his back—that familiar, aching curve that had become his constant companion these past nine months—and sat down on the edge of the mattress. The movement was enough to stir Lucian from sleep.

“Alastor?” Lucian’s voice was rough with sleep. He blinked, his blue eyes focusing slowly on Alastor’s face. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

Alastor reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Lucian’s forehead. “I think you should call Ms. Etinne.” 

Lucian sat up so fast he nearly tumbled off the bed.

The midwife and Madamm Dezord both arrived in less than a quarter of an hour. They swept into the house like generals surveying a battlefield. Behind them came Misye Dezord and CeCe, nearly seventeen and looking more like Madamm Dezord than ever before.

Ms. Etinne set to work straightaway. Hot water and towels were prepared. She made sure Alastor kept his breathing steady. Most importantly of all, she was there. Even as Lucian fretted and ran around like a chicken about to get its neck wrung. He adjusted Alastor’s pillows on their bed, fetched extra towels, checked the clock, checked his phone, all while trying very hard to look calm and failing utterly. Alastor had never loved him more—until his labor began in earnest.

Alastor nearly broke every bone in his mate’s hand.

The first fawn was born at 3:47 in the afternoon.

“A boy,” Ms. Etinne announced.

The cry that followed was so loud and so indignant, that Alastor could not help but laugh even as tears streamed down his face. The midwife took the baby to clean him, and Alastor watched, his heart pounding, as his son’s tiny fists waved in the air, his skin warm brown like Alastor’s own, his eyes squeezed shut against the shocking brightness of the world.

Lucian made a sound that was not quite a word. His face had gone pale, his blue eyes fixed on the tiny, squirming creature that was their son, their firstborn, and Alastor saw the exact moment his composure shattered.

“He’s—” Lucian’s voice cracked. “He’s so small. He’s so small, Alastor, look at him—

“I’m looking, darling,” Alastor replied, unable to look away

Ms. Etinne brought the baby back, wrapped in a soft white blanket, and placed him in Alastor’s arms. The weight of him was impossible—heavier than Alastor had imagined, more solid, more real. His screaming had subsided into small, hiccupping cries, his tiny face scrunched up as if he were deeply offended by the entire experience.

“Whew Lord! The lungs on this one!” Ms. Etinne exclaimed. “Just like you, Al, when I delivered you. You remember that Genieve? All that boy did was cry sun up to sun down unless you held him!”

“I remember.” Madamm Dezord said, voice cracking as she took in her first grandchild. 

“He’s got your eyes, Al.” Lucian’s voice was thick with tears. “He’s all you.”

“Every bit of you!” Ms. Etinne added brightly. “But we ain’t done yet, cher! That’s just one of—

Alastor felt another deep, agonizing contraction and cried out.

“Three! Come on now, baby! Push!” Ms. Etinne commanded.

The second fawn arrived at 4:12, smaller than his brother but no less vocal. Another boy, with the same warm brown skin and the same indignant cry, his dark curls plastered to his head. He didn’t scream as loudly as his brother, but gave a low, rumbling wail that suggested he was simply too tired to be angry and would register his complaints at a later time. 

“Oh,” Lucian breathed, looking down at his second son with an expression of utter, helpless wonder. “Oh, look at you. Look at you.”

Ms. Etinne placed the second baby in Lucian’s arms this time, and Lucian held him with a care that bordered on reverence. He brought the baby close to his chest, close enough that his lips brushed the soft dark curls, and whispered something that Alastor couldn’t quite hear.

“What did you say?” Alastor asked, still holding their firstborn, still marveling at the impossible fact that there were two of them now, two living breathing creatures that had been inside him just minutes ago.

Lucian looked up, blue eyes swimming. “I told him that his papa is the bravest person I have ever known.”

Alastor’s throat tightened. “Lucian—

One last brutal contraction tore through Alastor’s body as he felt it give.

“And here comes baby number three!” Ms. Etinne cheered. One more push now, cher! One more!”

The last fawn arrived at 4:31.

For ten seconds—ten seconds that stretched into an eternity—Alastor’s heart stopped and Lucian went rigid and the midwife’s expression flickered with something too fast to read—the child didn’t make a sound.

Then she opened her mouth and let out a wail that put both her brothers to shame. The sound was so loud, so unexpectedly fierce, that Alastor heard Lucian burst into tears beside him. Meanwhile, tears streamed down the radio host’s face unbidden.

“She’s all right,” Ms. Etinne said with no small amount of relief. “A perfect lil’ girl! Here, let me just—the midwife examined her with swift, gentle hands while the infant screamed.

Alastor couldn’t speak. He was still crying, his tears dripping onto the blanket of the baby in his arms while Lucian pressed close to his side, their second son cradled against his chest. Ms. Etinne brought the little girl back, wrapped in pink, still howling, and placed her in Alastor’s arms next to her brother.

For a moment, Alastor simply looked at her.

She was pale, like Lucian. Where her brothers had Alastor’s warm brown skin, she had inherited her father’s fairness with a faint flush of pink in her cheeks. Her eyes, when they finally blinked open, were not the deep, russet brown of the Dezord line but a deep blue, the exact shade of Lucian’s own. The same white-blond fuzz that covered her tiny head was unmistakably Morningstar.

She looked nothing like Alastor. She looked exactly like Lucian.

“Oh no,” Alastor groaned, and despite everything—the exhaustion, the pain, the overwhelming flood of emotion—he started to laugh. “Oh no, Lucian, look at her. She’s your perfect little copy.”

Lucian leaned closer, his breath catching as he took in his daughter’s face. His daughter. Their daughter. 

“She’s beautiful,” he said, and then his voice broke completely. “She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Lucian started crying again, which actually quieted his two sons. As for the girl, she wailed like she was trying to outdo her father.

Hours later, when the babies had been fully cleaned, fed, and tucked into their bassinets, and Ms. Etinne had made sure that Alastor was faring as well as his babies, the rest of the Dezord family gathered. 

Madamm Dezord was first through the door, her composure as immaculate as ever, until she saw the three bassinets lined up against the wall. She stopped. She stared. Her hand went to her chest, pressing flat against her sternum as if she could physically hold her heart in place.

“Three,” she said. “All I needed was for you to at least have one but three? Oh baby, you’ve more than put my worries to bed!”

“Three,” Alastor confirmed from the bed, where he was propped up on a mountain of pillows, exhausted and sore and happier than he had ever been in his life. “Two boys and a girl. Three times the insurance for our pack.”

Mama crossed the room slowly, her heels making no sound on the linoleum. She stopped beside the first bassinet, looked down at the sleeping baby inside, and let out a breath that was almost a sob.

“He looks like you,” she said, her voice thick. “He looks exactly like you did, mon coeur. When you were born. You were just this small. You had the same dark curls.”

Misyé Dezord and CeCe appeared beside her.

 “And the same temper, I suspect,” Alastor’s father said fondly. “Just look at all them lil faces! Prettier than angels. They’re gonna get away with murder—just like we let you do, Al.”

CeCe peered into the first bassinet, then the second, then the third, her dark eyes wide. She studied each baby with the solemn intensity of a scholar.

“She’s so pretty. Prettier even, than you, Al.” she said, “looks like Lucian.”

“Yes,” Alastor agreed, eye twitching. “She does.”

“I like her,” CeCe declared. “I’m going to teach her how to bite people.”

“Marcella,” Madamm Dezord said, but there was no real heat in her voice. She was still staring at the babies, her brown eyes—so like Alastor’s—moving from one tiny face to the next. 

“She’ll need to know,” CeCe said, undeterred. “For the suitors. If anyone tries to make her bond with someone she doesn’t like, she can bite them. I’ll show her how. I’m very good at it.”

Misyé Dezord made a sound that might have been a cough or a laugh. Madamm Dezord turned back to Alastor. She went to his bedside, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“You did well,” she said quietly. “Your bevy is proud of you. Your family is proud of you. And I—Her voice caught, just for a moment. “I am so very proud of you, mô kœr.”

Alastor’s throat tightened. “Mama.”

“Don’t argue with me. Just accept the compliment.”

“I wasn’t going to argue.”

“You always argue.” She straightened up. “Have y'all chosen names yet?”

Alastor glanced at Lucian, who had been watching the scene with a quiet, exhausted joy that had not left his face since their daughter first screamed. They had discussed names for months—long, meandering conversations that stretched late into the night, names from the Dezord family and the Morningstar family, Creole names, and names they simply liked the sound of.

“We have,” Alastor said. He reached out and took Lucian’s hand, threading their fingers together. “The firstborn is August Dezord-Morningstar. We’ll call him Gus.”

Misyé Dezord went still. His broad shoulders, usually slouched with easy humor, straightened. 

“Auguste? After my father?” He repeated, surprised.

“The very one.”  Alastor said. “He did teach me how to use a switchblade, after all.”

Misyé Dezord simply nodded, once, and turned away to stare out the window, his jaw tight, his shoulders trembling slightly.

“And the others?” Madamm Dezord asked, more than pleased.

“The second boy is Célestin. Cel for short.” Alastor smiled, remembering. “Lucian insisted on something musical.”

“And the girl?” CeCe asked excitedly. 

“Genieve.” Alastor said.

Madamm Dezord made a sound. Just one sound—soft and broken, almost swallowed—but Alastor heard it. He looked up and saw his mother, the leader of the oldest bevy in New Orleans, the woman who had taught him to fight and to scheme and to survive, pressing both hands to her mouth, her brown eyes spilling over with tears.

“After me?” Madams Dezord asked.

“After you.” Lucian nodded. “We could think of no better name.”

She hugged Lucian and thanked him. Then she hugged Alastor gently too. She held him the way she had held him when he was small, when the world was too big and too loud, when he had needed her strength to feel safe.

And Alastor, surrounded by his mother’s arms and his father’s quiet presence and his sister’s excited chatter and his mate’s unwavering devotion and the soft, sleeping weight of three new lives, closed his eyes and let himself be loved.

That night, long after the family had reluctantly departed and the hospital had settled into its quiet nighttime rhythm, Lucian stood beside the bassinets and looked down at his children.

Alastor watched him from the bed, too tired to move but too overwhelmed to sleep. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a single lamp, and Lucian’s pale hair seemed to shimmer in the half-light. He had removed his gloves—a rare thing, a gesture of absolute vulnerability—and his bare hands rested on the edge of the bassinet as if he were afraid to touch but could not bear to pull away.

“I used to think,” Lucian said quietly, “that this kind of thing was impossible for someone like me.” He paused, his fingers hovering just above Gus’s sleeping form. “I was an idiot. A complete idiot.”

“A complete and utter idiot.” Alastor corrected. “I suppose I’ll forgive you since you had yet to meet me back then. Otherwise I’m afraid your days would’ve been quite pitiful.”

“Good to know you’re still as egotistical as the day we met.” Lucian stroked Gus’s tiny cheek then turned to Alastor and smiled so tenderly it almost hurt to look at him. “Thank you, Alastor. For giving me this.”

“Come to bed, you sentimental fool.” Alastor said.

Lucian obeyed. He climbed into their bed and held his mate. Alastor cupped his jaw, the same gesture from that morning, and pulled him close. Their foreheads touched. Their breath mingled. In the bassinets behind them, Gus made a small, snuffling sound, and Cel stirred in his sleep, and Geni kicked one tiny foot free of her blanket with the imperious air of someone who had already decided that blankets were beneath her.

Lucian kissed Alastor’s forehead, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth—soft and tender and full of promise. Then he rose and returned to the bassinets, where he would spend the rest of the night standing guard over his sons and his daughter, watching them breathe, counting their tiny fingers, memorizing the shape of their tiny faces.

And when morning came, he would kiss them good morning.

And when night fell again, he would kiss them goodnight.

And he would sing to them because Lucian Morningstar knew no better way to express his love. And as for Alastor, well of course he was going to spoil their children too. Even more than Lucian.

The Dezord-Morningstar fawns had arrived.

And the world would never be the same.