(Nyx POV)
The cabin's windows were a clean sheet of sky.
From the kitchen, I could see the hairpin road snaking down the mountain, the pine-choked gulley to the east, and the slice of gray sea that opened like a knife into the coastal town below.
I'd picked this place because it looked humble and forgettable from the road—old wood, tin roof, nothing to steal.
What no one saw were the floor-to-ceiling bulletproof panes disguised as worn timber, the trapdoor under the pantry rug leading to a narrow tunnel that bled into the woods.
I'd paid cash and moved in silence. I Built my exits first.
You only have to be hunted once to learn.
Six weeks here.
And honestly—it felt more like home than anywhere I'd ever lived. The barracks had been the closest thing to comfort before this, but even that was duty. This was peace.
Still, peace had its own weight.
I couldn't process all my feelings and be a bag of hormones at once.
But I would be strong—for the life I carried inside me.
The kettle clicked off. On the counter, the clinic's printout lay face down. I flipped it with two fingers, eyes catching the words I already knew by heart:
Ultrasound findings: two viable fetuses.
Sex markers: male ×2.
Gestational age: [redacted].
Twin boys.
For a heartbeat, the kitchen went far away. I gripped the counter to stay anchored.
The doctor had been kind, gentle—too gentle. "Your vitals are good," she'd said. "Baby A is head-down. Baby B is transverse. We'll keep an eye on positioning. You're strong, and that helps."
She'd offered vitamins I didn't need, a follow-up I didn't want, and a smile I couldn't carry.
Now the wolf channels ran the footage—the imposter leaving his chambers, naked, hair black.
But I saw the differences: the tilt of the shoulders, the gait, the wrong stillness in her eyes. I knew my twin's tells, like my own, maybe that inherent knowledge comes with sharing the same birth space.
The commentary ran on loop: the mark on my throat looked nothing like the one she was sporting on hers. The "mark" supposedly implies Dorian's betrayal. I knew better. We are wolves; we feel mate betrayal painfully.
No, this was for the public —a show, a lie that the public did not want the truth. The truth would stop the circus, the gossip. The truth, in this case, is boring. I muted the sound, unmuted it again, because silence felt louder.
Mortified. Hurt. Those words were small. What I carried was older and heavier—something important, pressing against my ribs.
They'd made me the villain.
Fine. I'd been a weapon before. I could be one again. But I was not taking my pups into that shit show.
My comm unit buzzed on the table, a cheap burner. I didn't touch it. My boys rolled beneath my hand, that strange, holy movement that froze the world.
I'll keep you safe, I told them. Whatever they call me, I'll be your mother first.
Outside, a gull screamed.
Then—a car engine.
Not panic. Just reflex.
Windows frosted. Glock drawn. The trapdoor trigger under my boot waited to be used. The tunnel would take seven minutes; the exit opened in brush thick enough to swallow both a wolf and a soldier.
The engine passed. Gravel spat. Silence returned.
Then the burner buzzed again—an email, not a text.
The subject line was nonsense. The body carried the code that mattered.
Euros taste like aspirin (she's landed).
I typed back without thinking.
Bring oranges. (Ok to come, all clear)
A few hours later: Hospitals smell like them (she's on her way).
Eider. Vivienne's sister. Our shared ghost line.
I shut my eyes. The kettle clicked again, though I hadn't turned it on.
The babes moved, more active tonight than usual, "Don't," I whispered to myself. Then softer: "Not yet."
The broadcast looped. The countdown to the inquiry scrolled across the bottom. I shouldn't watch. But I would.
Because I needed to hear him—my mate—defend truth, not politics.
Vivienne
At Marseille, between two cargo vans, she climbed into a sleek, anonymous jet that smelled of expensive leather and old money.
The pilot didn't look up. The engines vibrate through her body. She settled into her seat and closed her eyes to rest for the first time on this journey.
Scarlett pressed against her ribs. You can't fix everything, Vivienne.
"I get to try," she said.
Several hours later, the coast appeared below—a jagged line of pine and rock.
She landed on a strip meant for emergencies, switched to a local car, and drove the hairpin road like she'd been born on it.
"There," Scarlett said when the cabin's roofline broke the horizon. She's inside. She smells us already.
"I know," Vivienne murmured. Her hands were steady on the wheel. Her throat wasn't.
Nyx
The little car crawled up the final bend.
I didn't need a scent to know who it was. Some people carried gravity; Vivienne was gravity.
I opened the door before she could knock.
"Don't lie to me," I said.
Vivienne stopped with one foot on the threshold. "I won't."
"The footage," I said, pointing at the silent screen. "Your blackout. Your story. What's true and what's not?" She hesitated.
Then I bowed, having forgotten myself. "Forgive me, Your Highness."
"You're beautiful pregnant daughter.," she said softly, tears slipping free. "Thank you for letting me come."
I laughed—raw, unkind. "Did I have a choice? You're footing the bill on all this."
"No dear," she said. "Your mother is."