The dream clings—teeth and shadows and a voice that wasn't a voice, just a vibration in my bones, saying, "They're coming."
I hear them before I see anything—whispers from three floors down, the scrape of a chair in the kitchen, the wet click of a guard swallowing his coffee. And the smells—god, the smells—sweat and leather and something metallic, like blood just under the surface. My stomach rolls. The baby kicks, a sharp little protest, and for a second, I swear I feel it listening.
I press my palms to my temples. This isn't normal.
The door creaks open without a knock. Remmah Arthur's sister stands there, her dark hair slicked back, lips curled like she's already tasted something rotten. Me.
"Sleep well, human?" She leans against the frame, arms crossed. The silver rings on her fingers catch the light—wolves in mid-snarl. "Or were you too busy dreaming of ways to ruin us?"
I sit up slowly, the sheets pooling at my waist. "What do you want?"
She sniffs the air, nostrils flaring. "You reek of fear. Pathetic." Her eyes drop to my stomach, and something ugly flickers in them. "You think carrying his child makes you special? Wolves eat their weak."
The words slither under my skin. I don't realize I'm standing until the cool air hits my bare legs. "Get out."
Remmah laughs, low and throaty. "Or what? You'll cry to Arthur? He's not here to protect you, little rabbit." She steps closer, her scent—frost and crushed mint—making my throat tighten. "When that pup comes, you'll be nothing but a stain on the sheets. And I'll be the one to clean you up."
My fingers twitch. I want to scratch her eyes out. Want to scream. But the baby moves again, and suddenly, I smell her—the bitterness under her perfume, the sour tang of jealousy.
Reid appears behind her, his blond hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned. "Enough."
Remmah doesn't turn. "The mutt speaks. How adorable."
Reid's jaw tightens, but his voice stays calm. "Alpha's orders. She's not to be disturbed."
"Alpha's orders ," Remmah mimics, rolling her eyes. But she steps back, her smile all teeth. "Enjoy your borrowed time, Lily. The moon's turning. And so is Arthur."
She's gone before I can ask what that means.
Reid exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Don't listen to her."
I press a hand to my stomach. "She's right, though. The pack hates me."
"They fear you." His eyes flick to mine, blue and startlingly human. "Different thing."
A shiver works its way down my spine. "Why?"
Reid hesitates. Then, so quiet I almost miss it: "Because you're changing."
Arthur finds me in the library hours later, my fingers tracing the spine of a book so old the leather flakes under my touch. He doesn't speak at first—just stands there, a shadow with golden eyes, watching me like I'm a puzzle he can't solve.
"You should be resting," he says finally.
I snap the book shut. "I'm not tired."
A lie. My bones ache. My head throbs. But the thought of closing my eyes, of sinking back into those dreams—no.
Arthur moves then, so fast I don't see it—just feel the heat of him at my back, his breath stirring my hair. "Liar."
His hand covers mine on the book. His skin is rough, calloused. A fighter's hands. A killer's. But his thumb brushes my knuckle, just once, and it's—soft. Almost tender.
I jerk away. "Don't."
His nostrils flare. "You're afraid."
"Of course I'm afraid!" The words burst out, raw and ragged. "I can hear people through walls, Arthur. I smell emotions like they're fucking colors. And Remmah—"
"Remmah is nothing," he growls.
"She's your sister."
Arthur's eyes darken. "And you're my wife."
The word hangs between us, heavy as a vow.
I turn back to the shelves, my fingers trembling. "What's happening to me?"
Silence. Then, so quiet I think I imagine it: "The child is strong."
I glance at him. His profile is all sharp edges in the lamplight—the blade of his nose, the cut of his jaw. Beautiful. Terrifying.
"You knew this would happen," I whisper.
Arthur doesn't deny it.
I yank a book from the shelf at random, pages fluttering. "Then tell me what this is."
His hand closes over mine again, stilling me. "Careful, Lily. Some doors don't close once opened."
I look down. The book falls open to a page marked with a black ribbon. The ink is faded, the letters spidery and old:
"The Luna's Sacrifice: A Ritual of Convergence. To strengthen the child, the mother must offer her life force under the blood moon..."
The words blur. My pulse roars in my ears.
Arthur's grip tightens. "Lily—"
I slam the book shut. "Tell me you didn't know."
He doesn't.
The air between us crackles. Somewhere, deep in the house, a clock chimes.
And I realize—I'm not just carrying a child.
I'm carrying a weapon.