Shock. It was an emotion Peter had grown disturbingly familiar with over the past year. So familiar that he thought he had mastered the feeling by now. Case in point:



1. Werewolves exist? Sure.



2. He was one now? Whatever.



3. Brom, Chad, Knave (insert name here) wanted to assault, kidnap, and/or kill him? Not ideal, but Peter had dealt with it all like a champ.



4. Damon was convinced they were soul mates and wanted to pin him to the floor (bed, wall, any surface would suffice really) and have filthy, mind-blowing sex with him until his brain leaked out of his ears? Who was Peter to complain?



But this . . . ? No. Peter drew the line at mystical, self-generating wombs. Last time he had checked, he was a man with man parts—and he'd frickin' show you if you didn't believe him, thank you very much. It wasn't physically possible for him to be . . . he wasn't . . . Jesus Christ, he couldn't even think the word in his own head. Pregnant, his inner voice whispered traitorously.



Contains mature themes.