Pressure to Procreate

Havermouth, Five Years Before

Sunday night, Rhett crept into the house. He could hear the scrape of silverware over china from the living area, and the soft tones of the classical music Phillip liked to play during mealtimes.

Heath and Cameron went home Sundays from the river house, to attend their mandatory Sunday family meals. Things in the Salem’s house was less formal, unless it was the weekend of the full moon and Phillip was home, in which case Lora Salem would cook a roast to appease her husband’s liking for the impression of family bliss.

“It has almost been a year,” Phillip said, his voice echoing hollowly through the almost-silent barn. “And the three of them seem to have little interest in finding a mate.”

“Not all werewolves mate their first adult year, darling,” Lora replied. “If I remember correctly, you were twenty-nine when we married, not nineteen.”

“I was studying law. And I wasn’t a member of a Triquetra,” Phillip’s tone was clipped and irritated. “They have one pur