Page 27 of The Lab: Rigg

Joel went to get the midwife and was back with them in record time.

We’d talked about how involved we wanted the kids to be and decided to leave it up to them. They wanted to frost the cake with Grandpa Joel because this was “boring,” which was perfect.

Grampa Joel teased that I should wait until tomorrow to give birth so the baby could share his birthday.

I was not loving that plan.

But as the hours ticked by, the kids went to bed, my water broke, and the contractions got deeper and closer together… I realized he was probably getting his wish.

My mate was getting worried. He thought the baby should’ve been here by now and maybe we needed to go to the hospital after all.

I didn’t.

I just needed time—apparently enough time to give the baby the same birthday as Grandpa Joel.

Because shortly after midnight, the midwife had me pushing.

And pushing.

And pushing.

There were a few times I didn’t think I could do it. My mate held my hand, lent me his strength, encouraging me on.

And then, with one final push—our baby was born.

Their cry filled the air, letting us know they were here. They were well.

A few minutes later, the midwife placed him on my chest. “It’s our boy,” I whispered, snuggling against my mate.

“He’s beautiful.”

“He is… What do you want to name him?” I asked. We’d decided that when we saw his face, we’d know his name.

And we did. “He shares a birthday with Grandpa Joel,” I said. “Might as well share a name.”

Baby Joel it was.

EPILOGUE

NILES

If you had told me even five years ago that I’d be in the passenger seat of a full-size van with every seat taken, on the way to River’s Edge for a summer picnic with four generations of shifters, human, fey, escapees of the lab or descendants thereof—I’d have thought you’d lost your mind.

But here I was. With Rigg, our six children, and Grandpa Joel. Doing exactly that.

It was a potluck, and I had enough potato salad to feed the entire town stuffed in the back. We were ready to party. Or as close to partying as I got.

“I hate to do this to you, honey.” I’d worked hard at avoiding it, but apparently not hard enough.

“What is it?” Rigg was driving, and I was in the passenger seat, hedging my bets on whether I could make it all the way there without another pit stop.

I could not.

Making this journey eight months pregnant hadn’t been ideal—especially with twins on the way—but it wasn’t that far, and I really did want to see everyone. Still, with two sets of legs kicking my bladder, it was time to pull over.

“Gas station time,” Rigg called out, probably to avoid the game of twenty questions that randomly pulling in somewhere always resulted in.

I climbed out and made my way inside while my mate launched into a song about ants with the kids. He was just loud and animated enough to distract them so it didn’t turn into an everybody-stop. Those took forever with as many little ones as we had.

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