Eighty-Five

Isobelle

One month later . . .

Soft whimpers stirred me from my sleep — if you could even call it that. It only felt like minutes since I last got the girls settled.

I cracked my eyes open; the air stung my corneas, and my head spun like I was suffering from a hangover. Exhaustion had kicked in, siphoning my energy and willpower. For the past few days, I had been running on the fumes of my sanity, thanks to a narrow window of four hourly feeds that never went according to plan. My God, those girls could eat.

One feeding time rolled into the next, and before I knew it, hours had passed by. Owning one pair of tits instead of a set of udders was a tremendous disadvantage. It was a quadruplet mother’s pitfall. The only way that I could feed them all at once was to change into my wolf form, and even then, it was no easy feat. The girls could not shift and struggled to latch by themselves. It meant I had to express milk and rely on my husbands to help. Keeping up with the supply and demand