As if sensing my turmoil, the tiny life inside me gave a soft kick—gentle, reassuring, almost protective. Like he understood. Like he agreed.
I wrapped both arms around my belly, holding the little one close, anchoring myself.
I stayed like that for a long while, breathing slowly, waiting for the pain to loosen its grip.
And finally… eventually… it did.
After Sabrina settled into the packhouse, Lucian might as well have tied himself to her by the wrist. Wherever she went, he followed, his scent intertwined with hers so strongly it made my wolf recoil.
And me?
I’d cut the last thread of expectation the moment I finally saw them for who they were.
One late evening, when thirst pushed me downstairs for a glass of water, a soft murmur drifted from the slightly open door of the guest chamber—Sabrina’s temporary room, the one Lucian insisted she needed to “rest properly for the pup.”
“Lucian…” she purred, voice dripping sweetness, “I heard that Saint Christopher medal from your family line works miracles for easing fatigue. The little one has been restless all night… Would you mind letting me borrow it for a while?”
The medal was no simple trinket.