Mira chuckled. The sound was low. Warm. The 'you-are-so-easy-to-fluster' chuckle that she had discovered recently and exploited relentlessly.
"Just give a name to the champ," she said. Her lips brushed his ear as she spoke. The contact was deliberate. The 'I-am-your-wife-and-I-will-tease-you-as-much-as-I-want' contact.
Viktor looked down. At Helena's son. The infant in his left arm. The dark-haired, quiet, observing child who had blinked at him.
"Sid," he said. The name came without thought. Without deliberation. The sound felt right. Short. Strong. The kind of name that carried weight without being heavy.
He looked at Mira's son. The infant in his right arm. The toothed, gripping, grinning child who had bitten his finger.
"Ryan," he said. The name matched. Light but solid. The kind of name that could be shouted across a battlefield or whispered in a nursery.
