"Flora! Nico! Rio! Miguel! Hurry up — it's time to go!"

I pack four lunches into matching bags as the kids scramble through their morning routine. As usual, Flora finishes first and arrives downstairs with her favorite butterfly clips pinning her fluffy curls in place and a backpack full of books on her shoulder.

"You got your homework?" I ask.

She rolls her eyes at me. "Of course. The others have theirs, too. I checked."

Dropping her backpack by the door, she sits at the table and serves herself scrambled eggs and toast while I pour her a glass of juice.

"Nico got a math problem wrong, but I helped him fix it," she says. "And Miguel made a bunch of spelling mistakes, but he wrote in pencil, so they erased."

"You know if you do their work for them, they won't learn," I say.

"I don't do it for them." She rolls her eyes again. "I just show them how to do it right."

I hide a smile. At eleven, Flora is brilliant, motivated, and a little bossy. She's my right-hand girl and helps me keep her three brothers in check.

Miguel arrives next, plopping into the chair next to his twin sister with a sleepy mumble that sounds almost like 'Good morning, Dad.'

"Morning, sweetheart," I say, ruffling his messy curls as I set a glass of juice in front of him. Miguel is his sister's opposite — shy and quiet, and happiest when he's alone with his sketchbook. "Ready for school?"

I interpret the monosyllabic sound he makes as a 'yes.'

The younger set of twins arrive in a rush of running feet and joyful shrieks as Rio chases Nico with a toy snake. I catch Nico just before he crashes into the table and pluck the rubber snake from Rio's grasp.

"Breakfast, boys," I say sternly. "And the snake stays here. I do not need another mid-morning call from your teacher."

"Yes, Daddy," they say in chorus, and sit down to serve themselves.

My heart warms as they wolf down their simple meal, and I breathe in a sense of gratitude just to have them all safe and happy in one place.

When they finish eating, they rise and carry their plates to the sink. Flora hesitates before placing hers in the soapy water.

"Did you have breakfast, Dad?" she asks.

"Not yet. I'll eat in a bit."

She eyes me solemnly. "Okay. Make sure you do. Nutrition is important, you know."

"Yes, ma'am." I smile, teasing her a little.

Flora is observant for her age — a little too much so, sometimes — and smart as a whip, just like her mother. Fortunately, she's also kind and caring — not like her mother at all.

"You guys have been good, lately," I say, leaning on the table as they all gather up their packs and head for the door. "Keep it up, and I'll take you all fishing this weekend. What do you say?"

A chorus of voices gives resounding approval to this plan, and even Miguel looks excited.

"Alright, alright." I laugh. "Now get moving, or you'll be late. You know the drill — hold hands, use the crosswalk, don't talk to strangers. Got it?"

"Yes, Dad!"

In another instant, they're out the door and down the street. It's barely a five-minute walk to school — one reason I chose this house — but it had taken me nearly a year to let them walk by themselves. The urge to follow and see them safely to their classrooms is still strong, but I resist. Dr. Vance said it was good for them to develop independence, and good for me to trust them. Still, I'd asked their teachers to call me right away if they were more than three minutes late, and I won't really relax until they're home again in the afternoon.

In the meantime, I've got work to do.

The real-estate agent had warned me the house was a 'fixer-upper,' but the size, price, and location had been too good to pass up. Gradually, I came to understand that what I'd saved upfront I'd pay for later.

The plumbing was old and leaky, the wiring was outdated, and the roof needed repairs. Something was always broken, and the place rained dust. Still, it was cozy and warm — nothing like the cold, sterile house the kids had grown up in — and they loved it. Maybe because there was nothing of their mother here.

There was just me, and of course three of their uncles living nearby — my brothers Dane, Noah, and Monty — who, despite everything I'd done, had welcomed me here.

They and their mates had all offered to help with whatever I needed — babysitting, grocery runs, an extra hand now and then — but I couldn't bring myself to ask for what I didn't deserve. The last time I talked to him, Dane suggested I hire some help for the housework, but I wouldn't pay for something I could do myself.

I had a strict budget — bills, necessities, and occasional treats for the kids. Everything else went straight into the college fund. Their mother could have put them all through medical school twice; but their mother could have killed them, too. I was perfectly happy never to see another dime of her money.

Meanwhile, as long as the kids were safe and happy, then I'd be happy, too. I'd make sure they had clean clothes, and got to school on time, and did their homework; that they came home to a place they felt loved, and that they always had food on the table. I'd make sure they laughed, and had things to look forward to, and made good memories to look back on.

I'd failed in just about every other way imaginable; I'd rather die than fail my kids.

The pain comes suddenly — a sharp stab behind my ribs that makes me gasp and grab the back of a chair for support. It fades over the course of a few unsteady breaths to a dull ache, and my alarm subsides.

It's nothing new. It started when my mate broke our bond with her betrayal, but it's been happening more frequently in the past week or so. Nothing to worry about, I tell myself; as a wolf with a broken mate-bond, it's just something I have to live with: the last way Elena will ever hurt me.

After a few deep breaths, I carry on with my list of daily chores.

When I'm done with the housework, I run errands in town — good exercise, since I don't own a car. Then I assess the house and triage repairs based on priority: the patch on the roof, the leaky downstairs bathroom faucet, the light above the stove.

Lastly, there's my pet project and future investment — the free-standing garage.

With no vehicle to house in it, I've been slowly turning it into a separate apartment and loft. Someday, I'll rent it out to college students, or Airbnb, or something, and make a bit of income on the side.

For now, it's low priority, and all I manage to do is take a few measurements before it's time to start thinking about a snack for the kids, and what to make for dinner.

Later, once they're in bed, I'll go to 'work' — which, fortunately, I can do almost anytime and anywhere. Elena used to mock my career as a writer of crime novels, my income being only a fraction of hers, but I'm proud to say it's enough to get by on. For now.

In a few years, Flora and Miguel will be teenagers. They'll want at least one car, and stylish clothes, and a larger allowance, and...

My phone rings and my heart leaps in my chest as I recognize a number from their school.

"Hello?"

"Is this Martin Hunter?" The voice on the other end is quiet and male.

"Y-Yes. Speaking."

"Hi — I'm Skylar West. I teach art at your son's school."

"Oh? Which one? I mean, which son?"

"Well, actually I teach all grades. But today I'm calling about Miguel."

My heart kicks into high gear as images of horrific pencil-sharpening accidents, or whatever else might happen in art class, flash through my brain.

"Is he okay? What happened? Is he hurt?"

"No, no. It's nothing like that. I'd like to talk to you about... his art."

"Oh. Well, I'm obviously biased, but he is quite talented," I say, and then hold the phone away from my face as I catch my breath.

"I agree," the mellow voice replies. "However, it's not the quality of his art that concerns me, but the content. Have you seen his sketchbook?"

My heartbeat quickens again. Miguel is eleven, but I couldn't imagine him drawing anything inappropriate. He's more interested in pond scum than in girls or boys.

"Not recently, no," I admit.

Miguel used to show me everything he drew, but recently he'd grown more secretive. Dr. Vance said it was normal, though, and not to worry about it.

"Well... Usually children's art is merely that — art from the minds of children. Adults often read too much into it. But in this case, it's the persistence that worries me. Some of the scenes he's drawn are fairly violent, and contain people he says are his family. And for some reason he's drawn them all as wolves."

"Has he?" My voice cracks, and I clear my throat.

"Yes. I'm honestly a bit concerned, and I'd like to speak with you in person, if you don't mind."

"Of course. When?"

"This afternoon, if you have time."

"I can come right now."

"Good. I'll be in the art room. See you soon."

The call disconnects and I hang my head, threading my fingers through my short, dense curls.

Raising four kids is hard enough.

Raising a little pack of werewolves comes with a whole different set of challenges.