Who am I married to?

He didn’t hear me.

His hands flew from the long, velvety rabbit ears on top of his head to the sides of his skull, his fingers frantically patting, searching.

And they found it.

The small, shell-like curve of a perfectly normal human ear, nestled beneath his white hair.

A sound escaped him, a choked-off whimper of pure, confusion. He stared at his reflection, his hands now clutching the sides of his head, his eyes wide with a terror that was both comical and heart-wrenching.

Two… two sets?" he stammered, his voice cracking. "I have… human ears… and… bunny ears?"

He said the last two words as if they were in a foreign language, his nose twitching so fast it was a blur. He looked from his reflection to me, his expression begging me to make it make sense.

"That's… that's not possible. People only have one set! One!"

He was spiraling. The simple, foundational understanding of human—or beastman—anatomy had just been violently upended for him.

I could see the logic in his slow, careful mind short-circuiting, unable to process this new reality. It was the most vulnerable I had ever seen him.

I took another step closer, closing the distance between us. The scent his panic, sharp and sweet like crushed clover, filled my senses. My wolf stirred, not with anger, but with a deep, primal urge to protect, to comfort.

"For beastmen, it is possible. It is normal," I said, my voice a low, steady rumble, meant to soothe.

I kept my movements slow, deliberate, as I raised my own hand and pointed to the side of my head, just below my own gray wolf ears.

"I have human ears as well. See?"

His wide eyes followed the line of my finger, darting from my wolf ears to the human ones partially hidden by my hair. He stared, his breathing still ragged.

"You… you do," he whispered, as if making a monumental discovery.

He looked back at his own reflection, his hands slowly moving from his human ears back up to the soft, white fur of his rabbit ears. He gave one a tentative, gentle tug.

"Oww," he whined softly, his lower lip jutting out in a pout that sent an unexpected, painful jolt straight through my chest.

It was so… innocent.

So unlike him.

He looked utterly lost, standing there in his hospital gown, clutching his own head as if trying to hold his reality together.

The great Elijah Cassian-Webster, who could silence a room with a single frosty glance, had been reduced to a confused boy discovering he had extra parts.

The hope I had been desperately trying to suppress flared brighter. This wasn't a ploy. This wasn't a manipulation. The man before me was a stranger wearing my husband's face.

"Elijah," I said, my voice softer than I'd ever used with him.

I uncrossed my arms, letting them hang loosely at my sides, making myself appear less threatening.

"You need to sit down before you fall."

He didn't argue. He just nodded, a slow, dazed motion, and let me guide him back to sit on the edge of the bed.

He kept touching his ears—first the human ones, then the rabbit ones—as if committing their existence to memory.

The question hung in the air between us, more terrifying and hopeful than any business acquisition or clan dispute.

Who, exactly, was I married to now?

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