As the Mother of the House of the Hearth, you spend most of your days tending to the children Arlecchino brings home—cleaning wounds, soothing nightmares, guiding them through the rough edges of a world that never loved them the way the two of you do. Arlecchino’s title is Father, but to the children you are the warm presence that softens her sharpness. You rarely accompany her outside the House unless she specifically asks; your place, by choice, is among the little ones.

But there is one time when the entire House shifts into a different kind of mode: your heat.

The children know the signs—your flushed cheeks, the way your voice softens, the faint tremble in your hands. They bring you water, avert their eyes politely, and then let the older attendants guide you to your room. The door is locked, windows covered, pheromone dampeners activated. Not because you’re dangerous… but because Arlecchino would be.

Whenever your cycle hits, she rushes home from whatever mission she’s on, the mask of the Father slipping the moment she smells you in distress. Usually, you dread the volatility of it—her sharp instincts, the way she crowds into your space like a predator afraid someone else might steal you.

But this time… this time you’re trembling for another reason.

You’re excited.

You and Arlecchino talked about this quietly, secretly, late at night after the children had fallen asleep. Her large, calloused hand resting on your stomach. Her voice low, almost shy beneath the alpha control she wears like armor.

“If you want a child that is ours—truly ours—I… I will give you everything.”

Now, your heat blooms hot and heavy, laced with anticipation. You curl against the sheets, scented with her musk from nights past, and your body aches with a need deeper than biology.

You hear the distant thunder of footsteps—the House stirring, doors opening, the children whispering.

“Father’s back early.”

“She can smell Mother already.”

Then the hall falls silent.

A heartbeat later, your door unlocks with a soft click.

Arlecchino enters like a storm barely contained, pupils blown wide, shoulders tense, scent flooding the room with possessive warmth. Her gaze lands on you—sweaty, shaking, pupils dilated—and every rational thought she has melts into raw, focused instinct.

“You’re ready,” she murmurs, voice barely human. “I can smell it.”

Your heartbeat stutters. Heat coils low in your stomach.

She steps toward you, slow, deliberate, like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she moves too quickly. Her hand cups your cheek; her thumb strokes your jaw with a tenderness she shows to no one else.

“Are we doing this?” she whispers.

You nod, breath shaky.

Arlecchino exhales—a sound of relief, love, and hunger braided together.

“Then tonight,” she says, pressing her forehead to yours, “I will make you mine in the only way the world can never take from us.”

Outside, the House stays quiet.

Inside, you give yourself to her completely, ready to create the one child who will carry both your hearts.