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Just then, Verity walks back into the room, gathering her hair up into a ponytail. “Alright,” she announces, looking all business. “I’ve got three premium nesting places for her, all picked out. We just have to see which one she chooses.”

Sy pushes off the wall with a glower. “Take her to the gym. We’re not letting that mangy cat give birth in our home.”

Climbing to my feet, I square my shoulders. “Yes, we are.”

His eyes tighten. “No, we’re not.”

“Yes,” I grind out, “we are.”

He steps closer, planting his feet. “No.”

I cross my arms. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Wicker groans. “This is exactly how you sound when you’re fucking, isn’t it?” But then me and Sy both turn our fiery glares toward him, and Wicker raises both hands, palms-out. “Hey, I’ve got no cat in this fight.”

“Ignore them,” Nick says, voice exasperated. “Fighting is their foreplay. They’ll be fucking like jackrabbits in five hours.”

Not fucking likely.

Wicker goes on, “I don’t see what the big deal is. So your boy got himself a little rough trade. To createisto reign.” He raises his beer toward where Archie is still crouched on the sofa. “Welcome to fatherhood, you handsome slut.”

Everyone else in the room makes a unison disgusted sound.

“Don’tthrow your house motto around here,” I warn. When Sy fights with me, it’s sexy, but when he fights with other guys…

Ugh.

It’s still sexy.

“That cat,” Sy says, voice low and full of threat as he descends on me, “is not giving birth in this building. End of story.” He comes to a stop a hair’s breadth away from me, the vein in his temple popping. “Period.”

The next morning,I find her in our bathroom cabinet, all tuckered out on the pile of towels I’d laid down for her.

A squirming pile of freshly newborn kittens is nestled into her belly.

I crouch down to look in on her, still groggy and pussy-sore from Sy’s cock, and can’t help my smirk. “We sure showed him, didn’t we?”

But a voice makes me jump. “Eight.”

When I spin, Remy’s got both arms raised, hands gripping the door jamb. His long, lithe body is on full display, tattoos flexing with his lazy movements. Unable to help myself, I touch his abdomen—that warm patch of skin right above his low-slung boxers. “Eight? Head check?”

He gives me a soft little grin. “Nah, eight kittens. I counted them earlier.”

“Wow. Verity was spot-on.” A startled laugh escapes me, and he grins at the sound.

It kills me how good he looks these days. When his whirling dervish of focus narrows down to me, I’m always amazed at how clear his eyes are. How sweet his touches can be. How the heat of his touch can burn, but not singe. I strain up for his slow, searing kiss, indulging in his little sigh when he presses his forehead to mine. “A couple are white like Archie, and a couple are black like her, but the other four are all patchy and spotted. Eight tiny, bright souls.” As he says this, his finger is drawing an unhurried loop on my stomach, swooping around in a big circle.

My breath catches in my throat. “Are you trying to tell me you want something?” The amusement mingles with a bone-deep fear. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he held Verity’s baby for the first time. The way he seemed to shine with excitement and emotion, cradling his new nephew. But although the thought of seeing him holding our own child gives me an undeniable frisson of want, I can’t pretend I’m ready for that.

But Remy just chuckles. “As much as I’d love to put a baby into you, Vinny, I think we both know I’d make a terrible father.”

Frowning, I pull back to search his eyes. “Hey,” I say, unreasonably angry as I cup his cheek, “that’s not true.”

His eyes soften. “Right now, it is. But that’s okay. I’d rather do it right than do it quick. I just meant…” His eyes zero in on my mouth, teeth raking against my lower lip. “Sy might be.”