IRIS
It was five years since Ronan had marked me and I somehow felt happier than then.
And rounder, Zorya added.
"Thank you," I said. I was now seven months pregnant and my reflection in the bedroom window was doing its level best and I was choosing to be grateful about it.
I adjusted the cushion behind my back and settled deeper into the reading chair by the window and watched the garden below, where Ronan was attempting, for the third time this week, to have a normal conversation with the young Alpha who had turned up at our front gate asking to speak to him about Lily.
The young Alpha was sixteen and was now taking very small backward steps under the weight of Ronan's glare. He was the third in a week. The first had arrived with flowers, which Ronan had accepted on Lily's behalf an
