Redhawk Caldera The lost boys

He would never know that his broken sniffer had been due to nothing more than a deviated septum (brought on by making out with Fox too vigorously, surely), nor did Peregrine bother questioning it. He looked exactly like he had lost a fight with a tree but he didn't care about that either. He could smell. When he woke up the morning following his big row with Fox and found himself sleeping in the whelping den, he slowly found his feet and popped his head outside, tipping his broken nose upward and sucking in a deep, deep breath of fresh air. So what that it hurt like a bitch?

Peregrine had no idea if he was an Alpha or an Omega right now. He didn't even really know if he was still mated to Fox. Hell, he didn't know if he would resume his mantle as hunter, even with his sense of smell returned. All he knew was that he was going to have four sons in about a month and that he wanted to dedicate every single second of his life to raising them right. This litter was no more or less special than those that had come before (or those that might come after), yet for reasons no one—except for fate, if you believed in that sort of thing—knew, he felt a strong calling to these newest little ones. They would be his vocation.

He stood in the doorway a long time, sipping on the various smells like fine wine, and then ducked inside to see if any more work needed to be done before this den was filled with the glorious smells of four little boys' farts.