Ella
“Parenting classes? Already?” I ask in surprise. “I’m only a few weeks along.”
“Yes, but we only have five months to prepare, and you don’t know anything about shifter children.” Sinclair replies easily.
I’m sitting up in bed with a breakfast tray in my lap, while Sinclair sits in a bedside armchair watching me like a hawk. It’s the morning after the attack and I haven’t been allowed to move a muscle, not even to vomit on my own. I attempted to free my body from Sinclair’s strong arms when we woke so that I could make a mad dash to the bathroom, but he ended up carrying me instead – holding my hair up and rubbing my back until I was finished. In fact he’s been so attentive that he took the day off of work to stay with me, and now he’s talking about going to our first birthing and parenting courses.
“Are shifter children all that different from human ones?” I ask, feeling a wave of anxiety.
“Well they gestate so much faster that I’d expect unique developmental milestones both during pregnancy and infancy, and then there are certainly differences in ability and personality. All their senses are heightened from day one, and they’ll need to learn about our ways and society – which means you do too.” Sinclair reasons.
I frown. Suddenly I feel as though I’m way out of my depth. My child is going to be a little superhuman miracle running circles around me, will I even be able to keep up? Before I realize what he intends, Sinclair has reached out and smoothed my wrinkled brow with the pad of his thumb, a kind smile on his face. “Don’t worry, sweet Ella. This is why I want us to go to class, and we’re a team remember? I’ll always be there to teach our pup the shifter side of things, all you have to worry about is loving him.”
I can’t help but smile at Sinclair’s tender assurances, and it takes me a moment for his last word to click in my brain. “You said
“him”, you did the same thing the night I was spotting – I forgot until just now.” I share, eyeing him curiously. “Is that just hopeful thinking because you need an heir… or do you know something I don’t?”
Sinclair smirks, grazing his knuckles over my cheeks. “I expect there are a few things I know that you don’t.” He teases. “But yes, it’s a boy. I knew the moment I felt the mental link.”
“Really?” I gape, my hands naturally gravitating to my flat tummy. Sometimes it still feels terribly surreal that there’s actually a life growing within me, and now – to think I have a son, it’s almost too much to take in. I feel tears in my eyes, and Sinclair grins, brushing them away with the pad of his thumb.
“Really.” He confirms. “We’re going to have a little boy.”
Before I can stop myself, I push the breakfast tray aside and launch myself at Sinclair, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and hugging him tightly. He catches me with a chuckle, squeezing me tightly and burying his face in my neck. He inhales deeply, his warm lips flush to my skin. “Are you smelling me?” I ask, amusement clear in my voice.
“So?” He laughs, “you smell me all the time.”
“Yeah but that’s the baby.” I remind him, repeating the same explanation he’s given me a hundred times.
“Well I like the way you smell.” Sinclair shrugs, nuzzling my hair. I wait for him to tell me this is also because of the pup, but he doesn’t. Instead he emits a soft purr. “The baby likes it when we’re close this way.” He tells me, and I realize our bodies are so tightly pressed together that he’s undoubtedly able to connect to the child’s consciousness. “He can feel us both, and our happiness.”
“I wish I had a link to him like you do.” I admit, pulling away at long last.
“Don’t worry.” Sinclair murmurs, “I’ll always be here to tell you what he’s thinking and feeling.” His hands slide from my body, and suddenly I feel a rush of cold air. I almost want to wrap myself back around him, just to get that luscious warmth back, but Sinclair is already standing. “Now hop to it, cuddlebug. Class is in an hour.”
__________________________
“Hey you’re good at that!” I exclaim, looking over at Sinclair’s station. Our first assignment in parenting class is properly diapering an infant (using a doll to stand in of course). There are eight other couples joining us, all at varying stages of their own pregnancies. Having diapered many children through my nannying days, I was confident that I could ace this part of the course, but I wasn’t prepared for Sinclair to complete the task faster and equally as competently as I had.
He shrugs, the very picture of humility. “In my line of work you have to kiss a lot of babies.”
I roll my eyes – I highly doubt many politicians go as far as diapering the babies they kiss. In fact I expect most of them probably pawn off the less pleasant duties of parenthood onto their wives – if they ever lift a finger at all. “Maybe, but it’s more than that –
isn’t it? I remember how great you were with Millie and Jake.”
For whatever reason, Sinclair doesn’t seem to want to take credit for this. Instead a mischievous glint appears in his eye. “Hey, how about we race?”
“That hardly seems fair, you have supernatural speed.” I whisper, careful not to be overheard. Everyone here thinks I’m a wolf, and I’m doing my best not to give away my secret.
“Scared?” He challenges, waggling his eyebrows.
Perhaps another woman might laugh off this silly taunt, but I’ve never been one to back down from a dare. “Fine.” i answer, narrowing my eyes. “You’re on.”
Sinclair flashes me a wolfish grin. “Ready, set, go!”
At once I get to work, simulating a diaper change complete with wiping and powdering, before sliding the baby doll over a clear diaper and doing up the tabs. Naturally Sinclair finishes about ten seconds ahead of me, “ha! I win!”
Before I can reply, the instructor comes over to us with her arms crossed over her chest, “Parenting is not a game, you two.
Honestly Alpha, I should think you’d take this more seriously.”
We both straighten up, feeling chastised. I’m about to apologize when Sinclair points at me and says, “She started it!”
I gape at him, and before I realize what’s happening a tiny growl vibrates in my chest. I have no idea where the impulse came from – it’s just like that night at the campaign dinner. Before meeting Sinclair I’d never growled a day in my life. It occurs to me that this is probably foolish – wolves don’t growl at their Alpha’s unless they want a beating. Still, Sinclair can only smile. He drags me close and ducks his head to my ear. “You’re lucky that was cutest little growl I’ve ever heard in my life.” He teases.
“Why, what would you have done if it wasn’t?” I challenge.
“Keep it up and you’ll find out.” He promises ominously.
I shrug, “You deserved it, you threw me under the bus and you know it.” I try to keep my tone stern, but inside my insides are veritable mush. I love seeing Sinclair’s playful side, and it seems the more time we spend together the more it comes out. It’s nice to know he’s not strong, tough and terrifying 100% of the time – a strong protector is a wonderful thing, but I want my baby to have a father who will play and have fun with it too.
The instructor, having given up on us, moves on to the next couple. Still our amusement only lasts a while. After diapers and cpr we move on to the birthing portion of the course, which is the last thing I want to think about. Like most expectant mothers, I’m excited for the miracle and eager to meet my baby, but I am absolutely dreading the pain of labor. I know it will be worth it in the end, but I’d rather not think about it overly much.
The instructor seems to have no such sympathy, clearly believing that the best preparation is to know every gorey detail ahead of time. Sinclair and I are seated on a yoga mat and my body is settled between his legs, my back resting on his chest. At first I was supporting my own weight, but with a little bit of encouragement I gradually leaned back against Sinclair, letting him support me completely.
The instructor is in front of the room, standing in front of a chart displaying a baby curled in the womb. “The average werewolf baby is 9-12 pounds and 21-22 inches in length–”
I stop listening at this point, trying to wrap my brain around this information. “Did she say 9-12 pounds?” I squeak.
Sinclair strokes my belly, “Shifters are bigger than humans, remember?”
I’m shaking my head, “No – no, I can’t do this!” I whisper frantically. “I can’t have a 12 pound baby! Delivering a small baby is terrifying enough now you’re telling me it’s going to be the size of a butterball turkey! Nope, uh-uh, not happening!” I’m well on my way to genuine panic, and my voice is getting louder by the minute. Other couples are turning to look at us, and if I don’t get it together quickly, I might not only have a very public breakdown, but expose myself as a human too.
