Wheeling Gull Isle snake eyed with a sly smile.

He could not tell what ailed the child. Her paw looked fine to his trained eye. Soon enough, she slipped it out of his grasp and sulked to a spot behind him. Caracal followed her with his eyes, equal parts concerned and heartbroken when Ava began to cry.

Can you tell papa what hurts, Ava? he asked, stretching out on his belly to put his face on the same level as hers.

She couldn’t know it, though this was probably one of the first times he’d acknowledged their relationship out loud. Caracal had felt a great deal of uncertainty with his role, in part because of Everett but also because some part of him had been reluctant to embrace the four newcomers thrust upon him without warning. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone—not even his wife—in the hope that this moment would come.

And it had. Caracal knew without a doubt that he was Ava’s and the others’ papa. It explained his horrible guilt for hurting her and the tender, paternal way he tried to nudge aside her little fist and nose away her tears.