Freya‘s pov.

Eighteen Years Later

“Mom, this is not fair.” Aria leaned against my doorframe with a put-upon sigh only a seventeen-year-old could perfect. Her black hair—Dorian’s shade—tumbled in waves around a face all her own: sharp, luminous, stubborn. Her eyes, green as river moss, cut to the crib where our four-year-old twins slept in a tangle of limbs and blankets. “Why do I have to watch the gremlins? We have an army of staff for this.”

I set aside the ...