The days that followed settled into a rhythm—not the frantic pace of survival, but something slower. Something that felt almost like peace.
Almost.
Alex woke each morning to the weight of his mates around him, to the persistent ache in his lower back and the tender heaviness in his chest, to the small lives inside him that had begun to move with increasing certainty. The nausea came and went in waves, worse in the mornings but manageable with Sally's ginger tea and the cooling mist Zale provided. His ankles swelled by afternoon, and his hips ached if he sat too long or stood too long or did anything too long.
But the stones were stirring.
