POV - Elena
It started as nothing.
Just a flicker. A hesitation.
By midmorning, my hands wouldn't stop trembling when I tried to sign the quarterly HR report.
I told myself it was the coffee. Too strong, too much, too fast.
But when I reached for the mug again, the smell — rich and roasted, something I normally loved — hit me like a wave of nausea.
I set it down immediately, the ceramic clinking louder than it should have.
"Everything okay, Ms. Dorne?" asked one of the analysts who had stopped by for a document signature.
I smiled — professional, automatic. "Perfectly fine, Daniel. Just a little lightheaded. Mondays, you know?"
He nodded sympathetically, took the signed papers, and left.
The moment the door closed, I exhaled slowly, pressing my fingers to my temples.
My body had been strange for days — restless, humming, always too warm or too tired.
At first, I thought it was just… him.
The aftermath of too many sleepless nights tangled in James's arms, of love that blurred the line between magic and madness.
But this felt different.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.
Maybe I'd skipped a meal. Or two.
Maybe it was stress. The pack. The council. The pressure of pretending every day that I was just a normal woman in a normal job.
And yet, deep down, a whisper began to stir — quiet, impossible, persistent.
Could it be…?
I shook the thought away, almost laughing.
It was ridiculous. Wasn't it?
But then I remembered: we hadn't exactly been careful.
My pulse quickened.
By noon, I'd completely lost my appetite. Claire noticed, of course — she always did.
"Okay," she said, dropping into the chair opposite mine in the break room. "You've barely touched your salad. You look pale. And don't you dare tell me it's the lighting."
I tried to smile. "I'm fine. Just… distracted."
"Distracted or dying?"
"Claire!"
She leaned in, lowering her voice dramatically. "You're pregnant, aren't you?"
I choked on my water. "What? No! Of course not."
Her grin was immediate. "That's not a no. That's a panic laugh no."
I glared at her. "I'm not pregnant. I just… maybe didn't sleep much."
She folded her arms. "You and James have been practically glowing lately. You think I don't notice? Half the office's been making bets about when you'll move in together."
I blinked. "They're what?"
"Relax. It's adorable." She leaned closer, her tone softening. "But seriously, Elena. You should check, just in case. It happens. Even when you think it won't."
Her words lodged somewhere deep in my chest.
And for the first time, I didn't immediately dismiss them.
By late afternoon, I'd managed to bury myself in paperwork, but the thought wouldn't leave.
Every few minutes, I'd find my hand unconsciously resting on my stomach — not even thinking, just… wondering.
When I looked up, I saw James through the glass wall of his office, mid-meeting.
He was half turned toward me, brow furrowed in concentration, shirt sleeves rolled up.
Even like that — or maybe especially like that — he looked impossibly composed.
And for a wild, heart-stopping second, I imagined him holding a child.
Our child.
The thought came with an ache so sharp and tender it made my throat close.
I looked away, cheeks burning.
No. Not yet.
Not until I was sure.
By the time the day ended, I was exhausted.
James caught up to me by the elevators, his expression softening the instant he saw my face.
"You're pale," he said, touching my cheek with the back of his hand. "Are you feeling all right?"
"Just tired," I said quickly. "Too much work."
He didn't look convinced. "You've barely eaten today."
I hesitated. "You've been watching me?"
"Always," he said simply.
I laughed, nervous, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I promise I'm fine."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"
I nodded, but the lie sat heavy in my chest.
Because I didn't know what was wrong. Or right. Or both.
"Let me drive you home," he said gently.
"I can—"
"Elena."
The way he said my name left no room for argument.
"Fine," I said softly. "But I'm making dinner."
"Deal."
As we walked to the car, his hand brushed mine — steady, grounding, his warmth seeping into my skin.
And with every step, the whisper in my mind grew louder.
Something was different.
Something new.
…
The evening fell soft and gold over the city — one of those dusks that seemed to hum with quiet anticipation.
James drove in silence beside me, his hand resting lightly on the gear shift, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. We didn't talk much. We didn't have to.
Every now and then, his eyes flicked toward me — that calm, assessing look of his that always made me feel both safe and utterly transparent.
"You're quiet," he said eventually, his tone gentle but threaded with concern.
I smiled faintly, keeping my gaze on the passing lights. "Just tired."
"Hmm." He didn't press, but his thumb brushed the back of my hand, tracing slow, absent-minded circles. That small touch made my pulse stutter.
By the time we reached his house, the sky had deepened into a dark violet, the first stars trembling through the horizon. He parked, turned off the engine, and for a long moment we just sat there.
"You're sure you're okay?" he asked again.
I turned to face him, forcing a soft laugh. "You really don't stop worrying, do you?"
"Not when it comes to you."
He said it simply, like it was a fact of nature. And somehow, it felt like one.
I leaned over and kissed him — just a brush of lips, but it carried a promise. "I'm fine," I murmured against his mouth. "Promise."
Still, his eyes lingered on me for a moment longer before he nodded. "All right. But you're not cooking tonight. Sit. I'll handle dinner."
That made me laugh. "You're cooking for me now?"
"Call it balance," he said, smiling. "You handle HR. I handle feeding the Alpha's mate."
I blushed at the way he said it — softly, reverently.
Mate.
Every time he said the word, my chest ached in that beautiful, frightening way that love always does when it feels too big to hold.
The kitchen smelled of rosemary and lemon and something warm I couldn't name. I sat at the counter, chin propped on my hand, watching him move — sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled, domestic in a way that still managed to look like power contained.
"How do you do that?" I asked, half teasing.
He looked over his shoulder. "Do what?"
"Make cooking look like a royal decree."
He laughed, a sound so rich it filled the room. "Alpha habits. Hard to turn off."
I smiled, but part of me wasn't fully there. Something inside me had shifted — subtle but undeniable.
A warmth low in my belly, a strange hum beneath my skin, a rhythm that wasn't entirely mine.
James set a glass of water in front of me. "Drink," he said softly. "You need it."
I blinked. "You sound like you know I do."
He leaned closer, eyes searching mine. "You feel… different tonight."
My heart skipped. "Different how?"
He hesitated, like he was weighing whether to tell me the truth. "Your scent," he said finally, voice low, thoughtful. "It's changed. Stronger, warmer. My wolf noticed it the moment you got in the car."
The words made my breath catch.
Of course he would notice — his instincts sharper than any human's.
"What does that mean?" I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.
He shrugged slightly. "Could mean you're tired. Or anxious. Or…" His eyes flickered, silver catching the light. "Something's growing."
My pulse thudded. "Growing?"
He smiled faintly, as if realizing how it sounded. "Not like that," he said. Then paused. "Unless it is."
The world tilted slightly beneath me. I forced a small laugh, but it came out thin. "You're impossible."
"Maybe," he said softly, "but I'm rarely wrong."
I stared down at my hands, tracing the rim of the glass. My fingers were trembling.
Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.
I tried to eat, but every bite turned heavy in my throat.
James noticed, of course — he always did — but he didn't push. He just reached across the table once, brushed his thumb against the back of my wrist, and said, "Whatever it is, we'll face it together."
That was all.
No questions.
Just certainty.
And somehow, that made the air around us lighter again.
Later that night, when we were in bed, his breathing evened out before mine. The house was dark, quiet but alive — I could hear the faint crackle of the fire in the other room, the rustle of wind against the windows.
But my mind wouldn't rest.
I lay there, watching the faint moonlight slide across his bare shoulder, and placed my hand over my abdomen — soft, tentative, wondering.
A warmth pulsed beneath my palm, steady and deep.
Something ancient, something familiar.
Not fear.
Not magic.
Something else entirely.
I swallowed hard, eyes stinging unexpectedly.
"James," I whispered, even though I knew he was asleep. "If it's true… if it's what I think… I'll tell you soon. I promise."
He shifted slightly in his sleep, his arm sliding around me, pulling me closer. His body curved instinctively against mine, protective even in dreams.
And as I closed my eyes, a strange, serene certainty settled through me — like the whisper of a tide I'd been hearing all along.
Something was changing.
Something was beginning.
And whatever it was, it belonged to both of us.