Chapter 164 Damien's POV

Chapter 164 Damien's POV
Four Years Later
I wake to the sound of tiny feet padding across hardwood floors.
It's early, the sun barely cresting the horizon, painting our bedroom in shades of amber and gold. Beside me, Riley sleeps on, her breathing deep and even despite the considerable swell of her belly beneath the sheets.
Eight months pregnant and she still insists she's fine. Still argues when I try to carry things for her. Still rolls her eyes when I hover.
My Luna. Stubborn as ever, and I wouldn't change a thing.
The footsteps grow louder, accompanied by a familiar determined huffing sound. I sit up just as the door crashes open.
"Papa!"
Asher Blackthorn, my son, three years old and already showing signs of the Alpha he'll one day become, barrels into the room with all the grace of a hurricane. 
His dark hair, so like mine, sticks up in every direction. His eyes, that impossible mix of my silver-gray and Riley's hazel-green, are bright with excitement.
"Papa, wake up! Uncle Jax said we're going to the training grounds today! He promised!"
I catch him mid-leap as he launches himself at the bed, mindful of Riley's sleeping form.
"Shh," I whisper, pressing a finger to my lips. "Mama's still sleeping, remember? We talked about this."
Asher's eyes widen, and he claps both hands over his mouth dramatically. I feel his genuine remorse mixed with barely contained excitement.
"Sorry, Papa," he whispers loudly, which isn't really a whisper at all. "But Uncle Jax promised, and Uncle Cassian said he'd show me the new security plans, and Uncle Lucien said…"
"Uncle Lucien says a lot of things," I interrupt gently, ruffling his hair. "Most of which you're too young to repeat."
"I'm not too young! I'm three and a half!"
"My mistake," I say solemnly, though I'm fighting a smile.
Riley stirs beside us, one hand automatically moving to rest on her swollen belly. Even in sleep, protecting our daughter.
The sight makes something in my chest tighten with love so fierce it nearly hurts.
Four years of marriage. Three years since Asher was born, and in another month, our daughter will arrive.
Sometimes I still can't believe this is my life. That the girl who stumbled into the Moon Rite ceremony, who I tried so hard to reject, who fought her way into my heart and refused to leave, is now my mate, my Luna, the mother of my children.
"Papa, you're doing the mushy face again," Asher observes, poking my cheek.
"I’m not."
"Are too. Mama says you do it whenever you look at her or me or…" he pats Riley's belly gently, surprisingly careful for a three-year-old "...baby sister."
"Your mama is very observant," I say, standing and lifting Asher with me. "Come on. Let's let her sleep a bit longer. We'll get breakfast started."
"Can I crack the eggs?"
I remember the disaster from last week. Eggshells everywhere. Asher was crying because he'd "broken them wrong."
"How about you help me mix instead?"
"Okay!" Asher agrees easily, already squirming to be put down.
I set him on his feet and he races out of the room, his wolf-quick reflexes already evident even in human form. The door bangs against the wall, and I wince.
Through the mate bond, I feel Riley's amusement even though she appears to still be asleep.
Nice try, her voice echoes in my mind. I've been awake since he started running down the hallway.
Why didn't you say anything?
Because watching you two is my favorite part of the morning, she responds, and I feel the warmth of her love through the connection. Now go before he decides to "help" unsupervised.
Valid point.
I head downstairs, following the sound of Asher attempting to reach the cabinet where we keep the mixing bowls. He's standing on a chair, on his tiptoes, fingers just barely brushing the handle.
"Careful," I say, steadying the chair. "Ask for help with the high stuff, remember?"
"I almost had it!"
"Almost doesn't count when you're about to give your mother a heart attack."
I retrieve the bowl and hand it to him, then gather the ingredients for pancakes. Riley's current pregnancy craving is blueberry pancakes with way too much syrup. I've learned not to judge.
Asher chatters the entire time we cook, a constant stream of observations about everything and nothing. 
Uncle Jax's new training technique. The birds he saw yesterday. His friend from the academy daycare who can already shift her ears.
"When can I shift my ears, Papa?" he asks for probably the hundredth time.
"When your wolf is ready," I answer patiently. "Everyone is different. I didn't start partial shifting until I was four."
"But I'm almost four!"
"Six more months," I remind him.
He pouts, but it doesn't last long. Asher's moods are like summer storms, intense but brief.
We're just plating the pancakes when Riley appears in the doorway.
She's in one of my old shirts, the fabric stretched over her pregnant belly. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot. There are pillow creases on her cheek.
She's never looked more beautiful.
"Mama!" Asher abandons the table to run to her, stopping just short of ramming into her stomach. He's learning. "We made breakfast! Papa let me mix!"
"Did he now?" Riley bends as much as she can with our daughter occupying so much space to kiss the top of his head. "I bet you did a wonderful job.
"The best job," Asher confirms confidently.
Riley makes her way to the table, one hand on her lower back. I'm there immediately, steadying her as she sits.
"I'm fine," she says, but doesn't pull away from my touch.
"I know," I say, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Humor me anyway."
We eat together, Asher keeping up his constant commentary. Riley adds her own observations, her hand never leaving her belly.
Our daughter is active this morning, and through our mate bond, I can feel the little flutters and kicks that Riley experiences.
It's one of the strangest, most incredible things about being bonded, sharing even this. The feeling of our child moving inside her.
"What do you think she'll look like?" Riley asks suddenly, her eyes distant. "Asher got your coloring. Do you think she'll have mine?"
"Probably," I say. "Or some combination neither of us expects. As long as she's healthy, I don't care."
"Liar," Riley teases. "You already have her whole life planned out."
"I do not."
"You have a list," she points out. "I've seen it. 'Future Considerations for Baby Blackthorn, Female.'"
"That's just... preliminary thoughts."
"It's color-coded, Damien."
Asher giggles into his orange juice.
I'm saved from responding by a knock at the door. Before I can get up, it swings open and Jaxson walks in like he owns the place.
"Morning, Alpha, Luna," he says, grabbing a pancake off the serving plate. "Mini-Alpha," he adds, ruffling Asher's hair.
"Uncle Jax!" Asher practically vibrates with excitement. "You said training grounds today!"
"I did say that," Jaxson confirms. "But I didn't say when. Eat your breakfast first. Warriors don't train on empty stomachs."
Asher digs into his food with renewed vigor.
Cassian and Lucien follow Jaxson in, because apparently, we don't believe in privacy anymore. Not that it bothers me. 
These three have been my inner circle since we were children. Now they're my Beta, Head of Security, and Chief Strategist respectively.
They're also Asher's favorite people besides Riley and me.