Chapter 106
pter 106
Three Years Later
“Alright, buddy, deep breath for me p>
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Dr. Nate–Dr. Nathaniel Hayes, though he insists everyone call m Nate–presses the stethoscope to Acdion’s small chest and listens with the kind of focused concentration that’s become familiar over the past three years.
Aedion sits perfectly still on the examination table, his little legs swinging, eyes bright with curiosity.
He’s beautiful.
Impossibly, heartbreakingly beautiful.
And he looks exactly like his father.
Dark hair that’s already showing signs of the same texture as Alaric’s. Eyes that shift between amber and gold depending on the light. Sharp features that somehow look regal even on a three–year–old face.
The only thing he got from me is the shape of his nose, and even that’s debatable.
“Everything sounds good,” Nate says, removing the stethoscope. Heart rate’s strong. Lungs are clear. He’s healthy as a horse p>
“A very large, unusually strong horse,” I mutter.
Nate chuckles. “He is definitely… robust for his age p>
That’s putting it mildly.
Aedion was born at three and a half months, and I’d been terrified he’d be premature, underweight, struggling to survive.
Instead, he came out eight pounds, fully developed, and already trying to lift his own head.
He walked at seven months.
Started talking at ten months.
By his first birthday, he had the vocabulary of a three–year–old and the physical capabilities of a five–year–old.
Now, at three years old, he could probably arm–wrestle a grown man and win.
“Alright, my man,” Nate pulls out a lollipop from his desk drawer “Let’s see those reflexes. ”
He holds the candy out, but keeps his grip tight—a little game they’ve been playing for months now, testing Aedion’s strength in ways that look like play.
Usually, Aedion tugs a few times, giggles, and Nate eventually lets go.
Not today.
Today, Aedion reaches out with one small hand and yanks.
The lollipop flies out of Nate’s grip so fast it’s almost comical.
“Whoa!” Nate’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay, that’s new p>
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Chapter 100
My Stomach drops.
“Is that… should I be worried about that p>
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Nate looks at me, and there’s something in his expression I don’t like. Concern. Maybe even alarm, quickly masked behind professional calm.
“ He’s a special case, Sorin. I’ve been doing this for twenty years. Worked with hundreds of werewolf children, and I’ve never seen development quite like his.” He glances at Aedion, who’s happily unwrapping his lollipop, oblivious to our conversation. “He’s strong. Unusually so. And he’s getting stronger p>
I know.
God, do I know.
Every day, Aedion looks more like Alaric. Acts more like Alaric. Has that same commanding presence that makes even grown wolves sit up and pay attention.
It terrifies me.
“Is he… is he safe? Is he going to be okay p>
“Physically? He’s the healthiest kid I’ve ever seen.” Nate’s voice gentles. “But Sorin, you need to be prepared. As he gets older, as he hits puberty, his wolf is going to emerge. And given his genetics…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.
Given his genetics, he’s going to be powerful. Possibly more powerful than any wolf I’ve encountered.
Because his father is the Alpha King.
I swallow hard. “We’ll manage p>
“I know you will.” Nate squeezes my shoulder. “But if anything changes, anything at all that seems off, you call me immediately. Day or night p>
“I will p>
Aedion hops down from the table and grabs my hand, sticky fingers wrapping around mine with surprising strength.
“Can we go home now, Mama? I wanna paint p>
Despite everything, I smile. “Yeah, baby. We can go home and paint p>
The apartment–our apartment now, after I finally saved enough to contribute to rent–is covered in artwork.
Canvases line the walls, propped against furniture, stacked in comers. Some are mine. Some are Aedion’s chaotic three- year–old masterpieces.
All of them are evidence that we’re surviving.
More than surviving, actually.
Thriving, in our own weird, complicated way.
I set Aedion up with his paints and a fresh canvas while I move to my own workspace–the corner of the living room I’ve claimed as my studio.
The painting I’ve been working on is almost finished. A landscape this time, moody and dark, with storm clouds gathering over mountains
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Chapter 106.
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My phone rings just as l’in mixing colors.
The contact name makes me smile: Julian–The Broker Extraordinaire (he insisted on the subtitle p>
“Julian, darling.” I answer, putting on my best gallery–owner voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure p>
“Sorin! Or should I say, the mysterious and ever–clusive S. Nocne?” His voice is warm, effusive, exactly the kind of charismatic energy that makes him such a good broker. “I have ews, gorgeous, and you’re going to die p>
“I’m already dead, remember? That’s kind of my whole brand p>
“Fair point. But seriously–you know that collector who bought your piece last month? The big coastal scene p>
“The one that paid off three months of rent? Yeah, I remember
“He wants another piece. Actually, scratch that–he wants to commission you. Personally p>
I pause mid–brushstroke. “Commission? Julian, you know I don’t do commissions. I paint what I paint, and if someone wants to buy it, great. But I don’t take requests p>
“I know, and I told him that. But babe, he’s insistent. And he’s offering ten thousand dollars just to meet you p>
The brush slips from my fingers.
“I’m sorry, what p>
“Ten. Thousand. Dollars.” Julian enunciates each word. “For one evening. One meeting. To discuss a potential commission p>
“That’s insane p>
“That’s rich people, honey. They throw money at problems and hope they go away.” He pauses. “Or in this case, money at mysterious artists and hope they show up p>
throw
My mind is racing. Ten thousand dollars. That’s… that’s stability. That’s savings. That’s being able to afford a real studio instead of working in a corner of the living room.
But it’s also exposure. Risk. Breaking the anonymity that’s kept me safe for three years.
“Julian, I don’t do meet–ups. That’s the whole point of being anonymous p>
“I know, I know, and normally I’d never ask. But Sorin-” His voice drops, becomes more serious. “This guy is serious. He’s got connections, money, and apparently a very specific vision for what he wants. This could be your big break. The kind of commission that launches careers p>
I look over at Aedion, who’s completely absorbed in painting what appears to be a very enthusiastic purple dinosaur.
Ten thousand dollars.
For one meeting.
“How much is he willing to pay for the actual commission p>
Julian makes a sound that’s half laugh, half squeal. “Does that mean you’re considering it p>
“It means I’m curious about the details p>
“He wouldn’t give me a number. Said he wants to discuss it with the artist directly. But based on what he paid for the last piece? I’d estimate six figures. Minimum p>
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Chapter 106
SIN RULES
Hoby shit.
M$/150
Six figures would change everything. Would mean security, Freedom. The ability to actually plan for a future instead of just Enviving day to day.
Who is this guy?
“That’s the thing–he wants to remain anonymous too until the meeting. Some kind of wealthy recluse situation. Very mysterious. Very intriguing.” I can practically hear Julian’s grin through the phone. “Very lucrative”
I chew my bottom lip, weighing options, calculating risks.
What are the chances this myster
Alaric, to the life I left behind?
Slim to none.
buyer knows who I really n? That he’s somehow connected to the Imperial Pack, to
I’ve been so careful. S. Nocturne has no history, no connection to Sorin Clarke, who has no connection to Sorin Carter of the Imperial Pack.
It’s just a meeting.
One evening.
Ten thousand dollars.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “Set it up p>
“YES!” Julian actually squeals. “Oh honey, you won’t regret this. fill send you the details. Probably sometime next week. Upscale location, very private. I’ll be there too, obviously, because no way am I missing this p>
“Obviously p>
“This is going to be amazing. Trust me p>
We say our goodbyes, and I end the call, staring at my phone like it might have answers to questions I haven’t even thought to ask yet.
“Mama, look!” Aedion holds up his painting–purple dinosaur and all. “It’s you p>
I laugh despite the anxiety churning in my stomach. “That’s me? I look very purple p>
“Purple is the best color p>
“You’re absolutely right p>
I ruffle his hair–hair that’s getting darker every day, more like his–and try to ignore the whisper of worry curling around my spine.
It’s just a meeting.
Just one evening.
What could possibly go wrong?
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