I end the call and sit for a moment with my hand on my stomach and feel the baby shift, the low rolling morning shift, the contented one, the one she does when things are as they should be.
"I know," I say, to her. "I know."
I put the phone down and sit for a moment with the quiet of it. I came here to cook. I'm leaving with a pack. I apply some make-up. I want to look like someone who meant for all of this to happen.
My omega agrees.
Santos is at the stove. Matteo is at the island with coffee. Tomas is at the table with his book and his glasses and he looks up when I walk in and the gray eyes go still andsteady and he is already reading my face before I have said anything.
"I thought about it," I say.
Santos turns from the stove. Matteo sets his coffee down. Tomas closes his book, and this time he does not mark the page.
"Let's do it," I say.
Santos crosses the kitchen and takes my face in his hands and looks at me with those warm brown eyes and his saffron is bright and full in the air around us. "Sei sicura," he says.
"Yes," I say. "I'm sure."
He kisses me once, soft and certain, and steps back.
Matteo comes to my left, and traces one finger along my jaw with the deliberate patience he brings to everything that matters. His pale blue eyes are dark and steady and entirely unhidden.
Tomas comes to my right and takes my hand and holds it.
"We want to do this properly," Tomas says. "Just the four of us."
"Just us," I say. "That is exactly right."
"Santos's room," Santos says. "Fresh sheets. All of us together."
"Yes," I say.
They look at each other, something passing between them in the wordless way of people who have been a pack long enough that full sentences are often unnecessary, and then they look back at me.
"Where do you want it," Tomas says.
I consider this. I have given my neck to them before, in smaller ways, and I know what it means to have their mouths there, the warmth of it, the weight. But this is different. This is permanent. This is the mark that stays.
"Left side," I say. "All three of you. I want to be able to feel all three of them."
Santos makes a low sound.
Matteo reaches out and touches the left side of my neck very gently, two fingers at the specific place.
Tomas nods once. The nod of a man who has the result he calculated and is sitting in the certainty of it.
We go to Santos's room. Matteo changes the sheets with the focused efficient patience he brings to everything, tucking corners with geometric precision while Santos opens the window to let the morning air in and the island fills the room, salt and green and the particular warmth of late September. Tomas stands by the door and watches me with the warm steady attention of a man who has been certain of this moment since a casino floor and is not going to waste a second of it being elsewhere.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
They come to me. Santos first, crouching in front of me, taking my face in his hands, looking at me with the full warm honesty of a man who has stopped performing anything. Matteo sits at my left. Tomas sits at my right, his silver musk settled and certain.
"Ready," Santos says. Checking, not assuming.
I tip my head.
Santos is in front of me, crouching at the edge of the bed, his hands warm at my jaw, his saffron bright and steady in the air. Matteo is at my left, his hand resting at my waist, present and certain. Tomas is at my right, his silver musk quiet and grounding, his hand over mine on the sheet.