Epilogue

EPILOGUE

MASON

Three Years Later

"Zachary! Zach, get back here—Daddy's working!"

The parenting books warned me, but I didn't believe them. How anything as small as a toddler could be difficult to keep track of was beyond me … until Tristan and I began raising one ourselves. Then, we learned. It's those tiny baby legs. They're short but powerful—and all too eager to explore.

"Zach, wait!"

Somehow, I manage to catch our alpha son by the back of his shirt just as he's about to barge into Tristan's art studio. He laughs hysterically, clapping his hands as I sweep him up in my arms.

"Again!" he squeals, delighted.

"No, not again." But who am I kidding? My tone is hardly stern, and I can't keep a straight face. Zach is too adorable. With his round cheeks, Tristan's hazelnut-colored hair, and my blue eyes, he melts my heart with a glance. He has both of us wrapped around his pinky finger—Father, Da, and Vincent, too, for that matter. "I've told you before, we don't bother Daddy when he's painting."

My warning comes too late, though. The door to Tristan's studio swings open. I had the sitting room across the hall from my office converted into his art room to celebrate our one-year anniversary, shortly after he started talking about taking up painting more seriously. Following in his Papa's footsteps. Now, he steps into the hallway, a grin on his face.

"And I've told you before, I really don't mind the interruption—not from either of you," he says. "I was wrapping up, anyway."

My eyes widen as he looks up at me, and I'm almost as breathless as I felt the first time I saw him. His hair is tousled unintentionally, and a small splatter of green paint sits at the tip of his nose. I don't think he even realizes it's there, but I do—and I like it far too much to tell him about it.

But my favorite part of Tristan's look is his belly. Slightly rounded. Protruding just enough to hint at his latest pregnancy. We have several months before our second son is born, but I'm already thrilling at the way Tristan's body will continue to change, how his skin will glow and his nipples will swell. He was so lovely when carrying Zachary—the way he'd absentmindedly caress his womb while looking out the window, how his eyes would light up whenever he felt the baby kick. I used to love nighttime most with him—not only because he always wanted me inside him while he slept, the same way he still does during his heats, but because I could rest my palm on his midsection and touch both of the most important people in my life at the same time.

I can't wait to do that again.

Zachary's excited about the changes, too. We're not sure he understands what it means when we tell him he'll soon be a big brother, but his already-huge heart hints he'll be a great one. The type of brother I never had, the type Tristan always wished Dane and Blaise had been.

"Daddy!" Zachary cheers. He twists in my arms, reaching for Tristan with such enthusiasm it's a struggle to hold him. He starts to slip in my grasp, but Tristan catches him, chuckling, and we hold our small son between us.

"Easy there, little man," he warns. "Did you tell Father what we discovered today?"

Zachary sticks a few fingers in his mouth and shakes his head.

"What did we learn today?" I direct the question more toward Tristan than our son.

My mate gives me a slight smirk. "We learned exactly how dominant the Dawes genes are."

"Oh?"

Tristan nods. "Watch this."

He finds the same spot beneath Zachary's chin where he discovered I'm ticklish our first night together and wiggles his fingertips. We all laugh as Zachary squirms; he giggles the loudest.

Like father, like son.

Is it strange to feel proud? Perhaps. But I don't care. Nothing can stop me.

"My brilliant boy," I murmur, still smiling.

Tristan heads into his studio again then. "Did Gus go home already?" he asks as we follow.

After the fundraiser, Tristan stayed in touch with Gus, the waiter whom the other omegas had bullied. When Zachary was born, we hired him as a nanny a few days each week—just enough so Tristan could paint and I could focus on my campaign for re-election to Arden's Senate. Now, Gus is indispensable, as much a member of the family as Vincent has always been. Zachary adores him, but I think Tristan appreciates having his friend around even more.

"Already?" Shifting Zachary in my arms, I pull my cell phone from my pocket and check the clock. "He left at least an hour ago."

Tristan's brows rise. "Sorry, I must have lost track of time. I didn't realize it was so late. You could have gotten me." He grabs some dirty brushes from his work station and heads to the sink in the corner. "I'll just wash up, and we can have dinner together."

"No rush," I assure him.

As soon as his back is turned, I can't help but glance at the canvas sitting on his easel. Tristan is painting the estate's orchards—all of the fruit trees, visible right outside his windows, including the orange grove.

The fact I picked this room for him was no coincidence.

My cock gives a twitch at the memory of that morning I drank citrus juice from Tristan's body. Something tells me he thinks of the same while he works.

"Isn't Daddy's painting beautiful?" I ask Zachary while we wait for Tristan to wash up.

Our little boy bobs his head and jabs one of his fingers toward a tree in the foreground. "Orange!"

"That's right. An orange tree." I ruffle his hair. By the sink, Tristan tosses his head back and chuckles.

I was correct. He picked the orange grove intentionally, exactly like me.

"There's a reason why those fruits are special to your Daddy and me," I tell Zachary. "I'm not at liberty to say why, so you'll have to take my word. But one day when you're older, I will explain about the painting over the sofa in my office and how I met your Daddy because of it."

"Okay."

The fingers go back in Zachary's mouth. A moment later, Tristan joins us.

"So, what did Jack make us for dinner?"

"Jack didn't cook—I did. Pasta."

"Mezzaluna?"

"Would I make you anything else, Tristan?"

He reaches out to comb his fingers through Zachary's hair. His hands still have faint paint marks. If Tristan's anything like his Papa, they probably always will. "Sounds delicious, doesn't it, Zachary?"

Our son babbles happily. All I catch is a shouted "yummy!" as he raises his arms overhead in a cheer.

We head back into the hallway, and as we walk toward the dining room together, I remember something.

"Wasn't your check-up with the doctor this morning?" I ask Tristan.

He looks at me, eyes glimmering. "I was going to fill you in over dinner, but yes. We're both doing well. The baby's perfectly healthy." His hand goes to the swell of his belly—the same automatic, protective gesture that tugs at my heartstrings every time. "I told the doctor it all feels a little different than it did with Zachary, too. He thinks that means something."

"Really? What's that?"

We reach the dining room, and Tristan pauses. He watches my face carefully, waiting for my reaction. "The doctor thinks it means he's an omega."

An omega … I've always hoped for an omega.

My heart swells so much I think it'll burst. So much I think it'll lift me like a balloon and carry me away. Off to the moon, maybe. And that would be fine, as long as I have Tristan and our sons beside me. I let out a whoop, one louder and deeper than Zachary's a moment ago.

Tristan sighs with relief and smiles. "You're happy, then?"

"Of course I'm happy. I'm elated—ecstatic." If I wasn't already holding Zachary, I'd scoop Tristan into my arms, swing him in circles, and shout the good news from our rooftop. But since I can't, I settle for cupping his cheek and giving him a kiss instead. "I have to admit it all seems a little unfair, though. You give me an alpha and an omega, and all I give you is pasta."

Tristan chuckles. "In your defense, it's very good pasta."

He takes Zachary and starts to settle him into his high chair at the table. Before I join them, I glance over my shoulder, back down the long, marble hallway that once seemed so cold—that once seemed a reminder of all the dreams I'd had and lost.

I don't have to dream anymore. I have the real thing at last, and it's better than I ever imagined. You might even call it a fairy tale.

Thank you for reading!