Chapter 104
Chapter 104
Chapter 104
SORIN
One Month Later
I’m running through the forest, and nothing makes sense.
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The trees are too tall. The moon is too bright. My feet keep stumbling over roots that weren’t there a second ago, and there’s something chasing me–something big and dark and absolutely relentless.
Run. Keep running. Don’t look back.
But dreams don’t follow logic, and suddenly the forest isn’t a forest anymore.
It’s a battlefield.
Bodies everywhere. Blood soaking into earth. The clash of teeth and claws and violence so thick I can taste it in the air.
And there, in the middle of it all-
My father.
He’s in wolf form, fighting alongside warriors I don’t recognize, and I’m screaming at him to run, to get away, to please god just stop-
But he doesn’t hear me.
He never hears me in these dreams.
An enemy wolf lunges. My father dodges, counterattacks, holds his ground like the warrior he was raised to be.
And then another wolf joins the fight.
And another.
And suddenly he’s surrounded, overwhelmed, and I’m running toward him but my legs won’t move fast enough, I’m wading through mud or water or my own fear-
He goes down.
“NO!”
The scream tears out of my throat as his body hits the ground, as blood blooms dark across his fur, as his eyes—those familiar, loving eyes–find mine one last time.
And behind him, standing in shadow, I see-
I wake up.
Gasping. Sweating. Heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs.
Fuck
Fuck fuck fuck
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I press my hands to my face, trying to steady my breathing, trying to convince my body that I’m safe. That I’m not in that forest. Not on that battlefield. Not watching my father die over and over again in an endless loop my subconscious apparently thinks is helpful
The room slowly comes into focus around ine
Tessa’s apartment. New York. One month and three days since umped off those cliffs and left my entire life behind,
The living room is still dim with pre–dawn light, the couch I’ve en sleeping on lumpy and familiar beneath me. Through the window, I can see the city starting to wake up–car horns, distant sirens, the particular brand of chaos that is New York at
ΠΑΜ.
I’ve been here a month.
A whole fucking month of hiding in a human city, crashing on my friend’s couch, pretending I’m not constantly looking over my shoulder for a massive black wolf who thinks I’m dead.
Good. Let him think that. Let him grieve and move on and find someone who can love him without baggage.
Except I can still feel it sometimes–the bond, pulling at something deep in my chest. Quieter now, muted by distance and whatever the fuck happens when one half of a mating pair supposedly dies, but still there. Still aching.
Still reminding me that I didn’t just leave Alaric.
I left part of myself.
I swing my legs off the couch and pad toward the kitchen, desperate for water and maybe some ibuprofen because that nightmare has left my head pounding.
But the second I reach for the glass on the counter, my stomach Jurches.
Oh no.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m hurling up everything I ate yesterday–which, granted, wasn’t much, but it still burns coming back up.
I kneel on the cold tile, gripping the toilet, and wonder when the fuck my life became this dramatic. Running from my mate? Check. Faking my death? Check. Puking my guts out in a New York bathroom at 6 AM? Apparently fucking check.
The front door opens.
“Sorin?” Tessa’s voice, slightly breathless from what sounds like a morning run. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” I manage between heaves. “Just living my best life.”
Footsteps approach, and then she’s kneeling beside me, pulling my hair back with practiced efficiency.
We stay like that for a minute–me emptying my stomach while she holds my hair and doesn’t judge me for being a complete disaster of a person.
When I finally stop retching, she hands me a towel, and we just… look at each other.
There’s a beat of silence.
A long, heavy, meaningful beat of silence.
“You don’t think…” Tessa starts, her voice careful.
“No.” The word comes out sharp. Defensive. “Absolutely not.”
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“Sorin
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“I said no.” I stand up too quickly, and the bathroom spins. “It’s just stress. Or food poisoning Or literally anything else
You’ve been nauseous for a week.”
“So People get nauseous. It’s a thing that happens.”
“People who might be pregnant get nauseous.”
I whip around to face her, and the look I give her could melt ste. “I’m not pregnant.”
“When was your last period?”
“I don’t know! I’ve been a little busy faking my death and hiding from the most powerful Alpha in North America!”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.” I push past her, back toward the living room. “I have that interview today. The gallery downtown. I need to get ready.”
“Sorin-”
“Drop it, Tessa.”
She doesn’t drop it. “You need to at least take a test. Just to be sure.”
“I’m sure.” I’m pulling clothes out of my bag now, moving with frantic energy because if I stop moving, I might have to actually think about what she’s suggesting. “I’m sure I’m not pregnant. I’m sure this is just stress. I’m sure I need to focus on
couch.” getting a job so I can stop being a burden on your
“You’re not a burden-”
“I am.” I turn to face her, and I can feel tears threatening. “I’ve been here a month, Tessa. A whole month of sleeping on your couch, eating your food, using your bathroom to have nervous breakdowns. I need to get my shit together. I need to find a job, get my own place, build a life that doesn’t involve running from the past.”
Tessa studies me with those sharp cop eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
“Fine,” she says finally. “Go to your interview. But I’m booking you a doctor’s appointment.”
“Tessa-”
“Not negotiable.” Her voice is firm now, the voice she probably uses on criminals who think they can talk their way out of handcuffs. “There’s a clinic on Fifth that specializes in … unusual cases. They’ve dealt with wolf pregnancies before. You’re going. Today.”
“I’m not pregnant!” The words come out louder than intended, echoing off the walls.
Tessa just looks at me. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push.
Just looks at me with an expression that says we both know you’re lying to yourself, but I’ll let you figure that out on your
own.
“Get ready for your interview,” she says quietly. “I’ll text you the appointment time.”
Then she walks away, leaving me standing in her living room with a pile of clothes and a rising sense of panic I’m desperately trying to ignore.
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The gallery is pretentious as hell.
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White walls. Minimalist aesthetic. A receptionist who looks at me like I tracked mud across her pristine floor just by existing
“I’m here about the artist position.” I say, trying to sound professional and not like someone who just spent twenty minutes puking in a bathroom. “I have an appointment.”
She glances at her computer with all the enthusiasm of someone filing taxes. “Name?”
“Sorin Clarke.” The fake identit
Tessa helped me create, complete with fabricated art school credentials and a portfolio that’s one hundred percent real but attributed to a person who technically doesn’t exist.
“Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”
Shortly turns out to be forty–five minutes.
When they finally call me back, I’m ushered into an office where a man in an expensive suit looks at my paintings like they personally offended him.
He flips through the portfolio. Pauses on one. Flips to another.
“Hmm.”
That’s it. Just “hmm.”
Not “these are incredible.” Not “you’re hired.” Not even “these are terrible but at least you
Just. “Hmm.”
tried.”
“Your technique is… competent,” he says finally, the word “competent” sounding like an insult. “But I’m afraid we’re looking for something more avant–garde. More cutting–edge. This feels…” He waves a hand dismissively. “Safe.”
Safe.
I painted my mate standing in sunlight while planning to fake my death, but sure. Safe.
“Thank you for your time,” I say through gritted teeth, gathering my portfolio.
The next gallery says my work is “too emotional.”
The one after that says it’s “not emotional enough.”
By the fourth rejection, I’m ready to set the entire art world on fire and watch it burn.
I walk back to Tessa’s apartment in the rain because of course it’s raining, and of course I forgot an umbrella, and of course my phone chooses this exact moment to buzz with a text.
Tessa: Appointment booked for 4 PM. Address attached. Please go.
I stare at the message for a long moment, rain soaking through my jacket, and consider just… not going.
Ignoring it. Pretending everything is fine.
But my stomach chooses that moment to lurch again, and I have to stop walking to breathe through the nausea.
Fuck.
I need food.
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There’s a diner two blocks away, and I stumble inside looking like a drowned rat, but the waitress doesn’t even blink. This is New York, She’s seen worse.
“What can I get you, hon?” She’s probably fifty, with a thick Brooklyn accent and the kind of world–weary kindness that makes me want to cry.
“Pancakes,” I say. “But no syrup. Actually, yes syrup, but on the sile. And eggs. Scrambled. No wait, over easy. Actually, scrambled but with cheese. No, without cheese. With hot sauce instead. And bacon. Really crispy. Like burnt. But not actually burnt, just-”
I stop.
The waitress is staring at me with one eyebrow raised and a knowing smile playing at her lips.
“You pregnant, sweetheart?”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
“I–no. No, I’m just–I’m picky. About food. That’s normal.”
“Uh–huh.” She doesn’t look convinced. “I’ll get you the pancakes with syrup on the side and scrambled eggs with hot sauce. And some ginger ale, because you look like you need it.”
She walks away before I can protest.
I sit there in the booth, wet and cold and increasingly panicked, and try to remember the last time I had a period.
The Bahamas. I think. Maybe before that?
No. Stop. This is just stress. Stress can mess with your cycle. Stress can cause nausea. Stress can make you crave weird food combinations.
Stress can’t fake pregnancy symptoms for a week straight.
The food arrives, and I eat mechanically, not really tasting it, my mind spinning through possibilities and consequences and the absolutely catastrophic reality that I might be pregnant with the child of a man who thinks I’m dead.
A man I ran away from. A man who killed my father.
A man I love so much it physically hurts.
No. I’m not pregnant. I can’t be pregnant. This is just stress and coincidence and-
My phone buzzes again.
Tessa: Clinic address is 847 Fifth Ave. 4 PM. Be there.
I look at the time. 3:15 PM.
I could not go. Could just… ignore it. Pretend this isn’t happening.
But the panic is building now, climbing up my throat, and I need to know.
I need to know so I can stop wondering.
So I can either breathe a sigh of relief or completely lose my shit in a medically supervised environment.
I pay for the food and head toward Fifth Avenue.
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The clinic is discreet. Tucked between a coffee shop and a booksore, with a small sign that just says “Metropolitan Women’s Health.
Inside, it’s quiet and professional. Soft lighting, comfortable chairs, soothing music that probably costs extra.
The receptionist barely looks up when I give my name.
First time here?”
“Yeah”
“Fill these out.” She hands me a clipboard with approximately eight thousand forms. “Insurance?”
“Paying cash.” Because I can’t exactly use insurance under a fake name.
She doesn’t bat an eye. “Someone will call you back shortly.”
I sit in the waiting room, surrounded by other women in various states of pregnancy and anxiety, and try not to completely spiral.
I’m not pregnant. This is just a precaution. Just ruling it out. Just-
“Sorin Clarke?”
I stand on shaky legs and follow a nurse back through a hallway lined with informational posters about prenatal vitamins and breastfeeding.
The examination room is small and sterile and smells like antiseptic.
“Doctor will be in shortly,” the nurse says. “We’ll start with a urine test, then possibly blood work depending on results.”
She hands me a cup, points me toward a bathroom, and leaves.
The bathroom is tiny and too bright, and I stare at the cup in my hands like it might bite me.
This is it. This is where I find out if my life is about to get infinitely more complicated.
I do the test. Leave the cup where indicated. Return to the examination room.
And wait.
The minutes stretch into eternities.
I count ceiling tiles. Reread the same poster about folic acid seventeen times. Try not to think about Alaric, about the bond, about what it means if I’m carrying his child.
His child.
Our child.
No. Stop. I’m not pregnant. I can’t be—
The door opens.
The doctor is a woman in her forties with kind eyes and the sort of professional calm that probably comes from years of delivering both good and bad news.
“Ms. Clarke,” she says, sitting down across from me. “Thank you for coming in today.”
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“So?” The word bursts out of ine: “Am I–is
She smiles, Gentle, Warm.
And that smile tells me everything I need to know before she even opens her mouth.
“Congratulations,” she says, “You’re pregnant.”
The world stops.
Completely, absolutely stops.
“About six weeks along, based on hormone levels,” she continues “Which means-”
But I’m not hearing her anymore.
Because my brain has latched onto one word and is playing it on repeat like a broken record.
Pregnant.
Pregnant.
Pregnant.
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“However,” the doctor’s voice cuts through my panic, “there’s something we need to discuss about the baby. The ultrasound shows-”
“Wait.” I hold up a hand, trying to catch my breath. “Did you just say ultrasound? Already?”
“Given your… unique situation,” she chooses her words carefully, “and the fact that this is a werewolf pregnancy, we wanted to get a preliminary look. And there’s something abnormal-”
But that word–abnormal–doesn’t register.
Nothing registers except the truth that’s currently crushing my chest like a boulder.
I’m pregnant.
I’m pregnant with Alaric’s child.
I’m pregnant with the child of a man who thinks I’m dead, who’s probably mourning me right now, who has no idea that part of me is still alive and growing inside my body.
The doctor is still talking, saying something about complications and additional testing and something being wrong, but I
can’t focus.
Can’t breathe.
Can’t do anything except sit there and feel my entire carefully constructed escape plan crumble into dust.
Because I can run from Alaric.
I can run from the Imperial Pack.
I can run from my title, my crown, my responsibilities.
But I can’t run from this.
I can’t run from the life growing inside me that ties me to him forever, whether I want it to or not.
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The room spins.
The doctor’s voice sounds very far away.
And all I can think is:
Fuck
I am so completely, utterly, irreversibly fucked.