Chapter 10: A life
The morning light in Silas’s chambers was different now. It didn’t feel like an intrusion; it felt like an audience, bearing witness to the new, fragile thing between them. Sera lay with her head on his chest, tracing the lines of an old scar that cut across his pectoral muscle. His heartbeat was a steady, comforting drum under her ear.
“I want to train,” she said, the words muffled against his skin.
His hand, which had been stroking lazy patterns on her bare back, stilled. “You are training. With me.”
“No.” She pushed herself up on one elbow to look at him. “I mean really train. With the packs. In the yards.”
He regarded her with that familiar, assessing Alpha stillness. The softness from the night was still there in the set of his mouth, but his eyes were sharp. “Why?”
“Because I can’t be a Luna who only knows how to throw a tantrum and a dinner party,” she said, the truth of it sharp in her throat. “I saw the way everyone looked at us in the hall. They saw you claiming me. They need to see me earning it. Or trying to.” She swallowed. “And I need to know I can.”
A long silence stretched between them, filled only with the crackle of the newly built fire in the hearth. Finally, he gave a single, slow nod. “Your father leads the morning drills for the general pack. Beta drills are at dawn. General pack drills start at seventh bell.”
She knew what he wasn’t saying. General pack drills meant everyone. The warriors in training, the cooks with latent fight instincts, the clerks who wanted to stay sharp. It was where the pack’s least skilled trained. It was exactly where she belonged.
“Okay,” she said, simple and firm.
He caught her chin, his thumb brushing her lip. “No theatrics. No blaming the dirt for ruining your clothes. You follow Arlo’s commands exactly. You take every hit. You fall, you get up.”
A flicker of her old defiance sparked. “I know how it works, Silas.”
His gaze held hers, unyielding. “Do you?”
The training grounds at seventh bell were a study in controlled chaos. The scent was overwhelming—damp earth, sweat, pine resin from the surrounding trees, and the raw, metallic tinge of effort. The sky was a hard, pale blue, and the early autumn sun offered little warmth. About forty pack members were scattered across the worn field, clustered in groups around scarred wooden posts or practicing hand-to-hand maneuvers in the dusty patches.
Beta Arlo Moreau stood on a low wooden platform, his voice a carrying bark that cut through the murmur. He was a older, broader version of Sera, his once-dark hair heavily silvered at the temples. He saw her the moment she stepped onto the field.
His eyes widened a fraction, the only sign of his surprise. He gave her a brief, almost imperceptible nod, then looked away, his attention snapping back to a young man whose form was sloppy. “Bend your knees, Liam! You’re not posing for a portrait!”
Sera took a deep breath, the cold air stinging her lungs. She was dressed in borrowed gear—soft leather pants that were a little too long, rolled at the ankles, and a simple linen t-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a severe braid. She felt exposed, absurd, and terrifyingly determined.
She merged into the back of a group running through basic defensive stances. A few sideways glances came her way, quickly averted. The gossip had clearly done its rounds, but the protocol of the training field held stronger. Here, rank mattered, but so did effort. She was just another body.
“Moreau!” her father’s voice called, crisp and professional. “With Group Three. Sparring drills. Defensive holds only.”
She moved, her heart hammering against her ribs. Group Three was a mix of teenagers and older pack members. Her partner was a woman named Elara from the kitchens, her hands strong and rough from work.
They began. It was clumsy. Sera’s body, while agile from a lifetime of maintaining a certain aesthetic, didn’t know these movements. Her blocks were too slow, her balance off. Elara, clearly holding back, still managed to tap her shoulder, her ribs, her thigh.
“You’re leaning into it, Luna,” Elara said softly, the title respectful but the advice firm. “You have to redirect the force, not meet it.”
Sera nodded, gritting her teeth. The session rolled on. They moved from defensive drills to obstacle runs—low walls to vault, logs to balance on, mud pits to slog through. Her muscles burned. Her lungs felt like they were lined with sandpaper. A fine layer of grime coated her skin, mixing with sweat.
And through it all, a low, distressed whine echoed in the back of her skull. Her wolf.
It wasn’t the usual impatient annoyance, the creature’s disdain for manual labor that Sera had always attributed to her own spoiled nature. This was different. A sharp, keening anxiety that made her joints feel loose and her focus scatter. Every time she pushed herself to run faster, to hit harder, the whimper intensified, a psychic flinch.
Stop, it seemed to pulse. Wrong. Dangerous.
She shut it down, clenching her jaw. This was exactly what Silas had warned her about. Her own fragility masquerading as instinct. She was just weak. She hated the strain, the dirt, the humiliation, and her wolf was simply echoing her own pathetic reluctance. She pushed harder.
From the edge of the field, under the shade of a tall pine, Silas watched. He was a statue, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn’t said a word to her since she’d arrived. He just observed, his expression unreadable. She caught sight of him sometimes, a dark, still point in her peripheral vision. It fueled her stubbornness. She would not quit under his gaze.
Her father called for partnered grappling drills. “Controlled takedowns! Use the momentum!”
Her new partner was Kellan, the sentry from outside Silas’s door. He looked deeply uncomfortable. “Luna, I don’t think—”
“Just do it, Kellan,” she panted, sinking into the pathetic approximation of a ready stance she’d learned an hour ago.
He moved, a blur of trained efficiency. He was being gentle, she could tell, pulling his strikes and his weight. But he was still twice her size and built of pure muscle. He came in low, aiming to hook her leg and take her down. She tried to pivot, to shift her weight as Elara had said, but her tired legs tangled. She stumbled backward, and Kellan, over-correcting his gentleness, lost his own balance.
His shoulder drove into her side as they both went down.
A white-hot spike of pain lanced through her abdomen, so sharp and sudden her vision tunneled. She saw flashes of white light against the dark earth. The air left her lungs in a sickening whoosh. She hit the ground with a thud that rattled her teeth, Kellan’s weight half on top of her.
The world swam. Nausea, acute and violent, rose in her throat. Her wolf’s whine escalated to a panicked, internal scream.
Kellan scrambled off her, his face pale. “Luna! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
She couldn’t speak. She could only gasp, curling instinctively around the fire in her side. It wasn’t just the impact. It was a deep, wrong, sickening feeling. But pride was a vicious fuel. Through the blinding pain, she saw the other groups had stopped. They were all staring. She saw her father’s concerned face, already moving toward her.
And she saw Silas.
He was no longer under the tree. He was already halfway across the field, moving with a quiet, terrifying speed. His face was carved from stone, but his eyes were pure, glowing amber.
Before her father could reach her, before Kellan could help her up, Silas was there. He didn’t ask. He didn’t gently inquire. He simply dropped to his knees, his hands going to her shoulders.
“Enough,” he said, his voice low, a vibration that brooked no argument.
The rage was instant, a molten counterpoint to the pain. She tried to shove his hands away, but his grip was iron. “Get off me,” she spat, tears of fury and hurt springing to her eyes. “I’m fine! It was an accident. Let me up!”
“No.” The word was absolute. His gaze wasn’t on her face; it was fixed on her torso, where her hands were pressed to her side. His own wolf was in his eyes, and it was looking at her with a knowledge that froze her blood.
Her father arrived, his brow furrowed. “Alpha, she’s just had the wind knocked—”
“Arlo,” Silas cut him off, his voice still that deadly calm. “Clear the field. Now.”
The command snapped through the air. Beta Moreau didn’t hesitate. He turned, his voice booming. “Drills are over! Everyone, to the mess hall! Move!”
The pack scattered, confusion and concern on their faces. Kellan looked like he might be sick. In moments, the sprawling field was empty except for the three of them, the silent training posts, and the crows wheeling overhead.
Silas’s hands softened, moving from her shoulders to frame her face. “Sera,” he said, and his voice changed. It was rough, laced with a fear she’d never heard from him. “Look at me.”
“I hate you,” she whispered, trembling from pain and humiliation. “You’re embarrassing me. You’re proving them all right—”
“Your wolf,” he interrupted, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. “What is she doing? Right now.”
Sera stilled. Behind the rage, beneath the pain, the creature inside her was a vortex of pure, undiluted terror. It wasn’t complaining. It was shielding. It was pulling inward, around a soft, hidden center she hadn’t even known was there.
“She’s… scared,” Sera admitted, confusion cutting through her anger.
Silas closed his eyes for a second, a pained expression flashing across his features. When he opened them, the amber glow had softened to a burnished gold. “She’s not scared for you,” he said, the words so quiet they were almost lost in the wind. He moved one hand, placing it flat and achingly gentle over where Kellan’s shoulder had struck, over the heart of the sickening wrongness. “She’s scared for him.”
The world stopped.
The crows, the distant breeze, the retreating footsteps of the pack—everything muted into a dull roar. Sera stared into his eyes, seeing her own dawning, catastrophic understanding reflected there.
“What?” The word was a breath.
“My wolf knew,” Silas said, his voice cracking. “The moment you walked onto the field. He knew. He’s been… screaming at me. I thought it was just protectiveness. A mate thing.” He shook his head, a helpless, raw motion. “It’s more. Your wolf… she’s been trying to tell you. To tell us. She was begging you to stop.”
The puzzle pieces, agonizingly obvious in hindsight, clicked into place. The unusual fatigue. The heightened emotions. The strange, tender soreness in her breasts she’d ignored. The way her wolf had been so frantic, so different.
Not hatred for training.
Protection.
She looked down at his large, calloused hand covering her lower abdomen. A life. A tiny, unimaginable life, was inside her. Theirs. Created in the fire of his rut and the quiet dawn that followed.
The fight drained out of her, replaced by a flood of sheer, vertiginous panic. “No. No, it can’t… we only just…”
But it could. It had.
She met his eyes again, and saw that his fear mirrored hers, but underneath it was something else. A fierce, blazing wonder that was already burning the fear away. His hand pressed a little more firmly against her, as if he could already feel a heartbeat through her skin.
“We’re done training,” he said, and it wasn’t an Alpha’s command.
It was a vow, soft and irrevocable.
He helped her to her feet, his arm around her waist taking all her weight. The sickening throb in her side had dulled to a deep, persistent ache, but it was the tremor in her hands that scared her. The field was empty now, just wind kicking up dust where the pack had been moments before.
“Can you walk?” he asked, his voice tight.
“Yes,” she said, but her legs were unreliable.
He didn’t wait. He simply bent and scooped her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. She didn’t protest. She buried her face in the curve of his neck, breathing in pine and cold steel, and let the tears come silently.
He didn’t take her to the pack house. He carried her past the main path, toward a smaller, older cottage nestled against the tree line. Smoke curled from its chimney, carrying the scent of drying herbs and something astringent. This was Mara’s place, the healer’s den.
He didn’t knock. He shouldered the door open and stepped into the warm, cluttered space. Bundles of herbs hung from the rafters, and the shelves were crammed with jars of tinctures and poultices. Mara, an older woman with sharp eyes and hands permanently stained green from her work, looked up from her mortar and pestle.
She took in the sight of her Alpha carrying a shaken, dusty Luna, and her expression didn’t flicker. “Put her on the table,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
Silas laid her down on the worn wooden surface. It was cool beneath her. He didn’t step back. He stood beside her, one hand finding hers, his thumb pressing into her palm.
“What happened?” Mara asked, approaching. Her eyes scanned Sera, not missing a detail.
“A takedown drill,” Silas answered, his voice rough. “Kellan. He connected with her side. It was… it shouldn’t have been that bad.”
Mara’s gaze flicked to Silas’s face, reading something there Sera couldn’t see. “Hmm.” She placed warm, dry hands on Sera’s abdomen. “Tell me where it hurts.”
“Here,” Sera whispered, placing her own hand over the spot. “It’s… a deep ache. And I feel… sick.”
Mara’s fingers probed gently. “Any bleeding?”
“No.”
The healer nodded. She worked in silence for a minute, her touch clinical but thorough. She checked Sera’s pulse at her wrist and her throat, looked into her eyes, and asked about her last cycle. Sera answered in monosyllables, her heart a frantic bird in her chest.
Finally, Mara stepped back. She looked at Silas. “You suspect.”
It wasn’t a question.
Silas gave a single, stiff nod. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped. “Our wolves… they know.”
Mara turned to a shelf, pulling down a small, unassuming clay cup. She filled it with water from a pitcher, then added three drops from a dark blue vial. The liquid swirled, clear. “Drink this,” she instructed Sera.
“What is it?” Sera asked, her voice thin.
“Moonwater and seer’s root. It reacts to specific hormonal shifts.” Mara’s tone was matter-of-fact. “It will tell us what your wolf is trying to.”
Sera took the cup. Her hand shook. Silas’s grip on her other hand tightened, a silent anchor. She drank. The liquid was tasteless, cool.
They waited.
Nothing happened for a long moment. Then, a faint, swirling mist began to rise from the surface of the water inside the cup. It coalesced into a soft, silver-blue glow, pulsing gently like a tiny, captive heartbeat.
Mara let out a slow breath. “Yes.”
The word hung in the herb-scented air. Sera stared at the glowing cup, unable to look away. The light seemed to seep into her, confirming what her body had already known but her mind had refused to grasp.
“How early?” Silas asked. His voice was strained, stretched thin.
“Days,” Mara said, taking the cup from Sera’s numb fingers. “Perhaps a week. No more.” She looked between them, her sharp eyes softening. “The pain is normal. The pup is securing itself. But you must rest. No more training. No strenuous activity. Your wolf will guide you—listen to her. She’s been trying to.”
Sera finally looked at Silas. His face was pale, wiped clean of all its usual stern certainty. He looked… shattered. And rebuilt, all at once. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, his eyes closing.
“Okay,” he breathed, the word meant only for her.
Then the practicalities crashed in. “My father,” Sera said, a fresh wave of panic rising. “The pack. They’ll know something’s wrong. I collapsed, you carried me out…”
“Let them think you’re injured from the fall,” Mara said calmly, gathering some dried leaves into a muslin pouch. “A bruised rib. It will suffice for now. This news is yours to share when you’re ready.” She handed the pouch to Silas. “Steep this in tea twice a day. For the nausea.”
Silas took it, nodding. His attention was already turning inward, planning, protecting.
“Thank you, Mara,” Sera whispered.
The healer gave a small, knowing smile. “Congratulations, Luna.”
The words felt surreal. Sera let Silas help her sit up, then slide off the table. Her legs held. The world outside the cottage door looked exactly the same—the same sky, the same trees. But everything had changed.
He guided her out, his arm a solid bar around her back. They walked slowly this time, back toward the main house. The path felt longer. Every sensation was heightened: the crunch of gravel underfoot, the call of a distant hawk, the feel of his hand splayed against her rib cage.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she said quietly, the confession slipping out.
He stopped, turning her gently to face him. His gray eyes were endless. “Neither do I,” he admitted, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. “We’ll learn. Together.”
A lump formed in her throat. She nodded, leaning into his touch.
They resumed walking, the silence between them now thick with a thousand unspoken thoughts and fears and a fragile, dawning joy. As they approached the pack house, Sera saw a few faces at windows, quickly ducking away. The story of the Alpha carrying his injured mate would already be spreading.
Let them talk, she thought, her hand drifting unconsciously to her stomach. For now, this secret was hers. His. Theirs.
A tiny, silver-blue pulse in the darkness, days old, and already rewriting every rule.
Silas’s protectiveness didn’t simmer; it exploded. It became the air she breathed, the cage around her hours. He moved her from the south wing back into his chambers, but now the austere space felt like a luxurious cell. He forbade her from the training yards, which she expected. Then he forbade her from the kitchens, the gardens, the laundry.
“Sitting for too long strains your back,” he’d say, taking a book from her hands after twenty minutes. “Mara said rest.”
“Walking to the hall is fine,” she’d argue, swinging her legs off the bed.
“The stairs are uneven. You could trip.” His voice allowed no debate. He’d lift her, his hands firm under her thighs, and carry her wherever she needed to go. It was infuriating.
He watched her eat with the intensity of a hawk. If she pushed a piece of meat around her plate, his knuckles would go white on the table. “You’re not consuming enough protein,” he’d state, scooping another portion onto her plate.
“I’m not hungry, Silas. My stomach feels like a stormy sea.”
“The pup needs nutrients,” was his immutable reply. One evening, after she’d refused the third helping of roasted venison, he picked up the fork himself. “Open your mouth, Sera.”
She clenched her jaw. “I am not a child.”
“Then stop acting like one and eat.” His eyes glowed, a subtle amber warning. He held the fork steady, waiting. The tension stretched, thick enough to choke on. With a sound of pure frustration, she opened her mouth, letting him feed her the hated meat while furious tears pricked her eyes. He wiped her cheek with his thumb, his touch tender, his will iron.
The worst of it was the silence in his massive bed.
For a week after Mara’s confirmation, he held her every night. He wrapped himself around her, his hand splayed over her lower stomach as if guarding a treasure. But it was chaste. Reverent. Deadly.
His desire was a tangible force. She felt his erection, hard and insistent, pressed against her backside. She’d arch into him instinctively, a needy little grind, and he’d groan, a rough sound of agony. Then he’d shift back, putting careful inches between them.
“Silas,” she whispered one night, her hand reaching back to grasp his hip.
He caught her wrist, his breath hot on her neck. “No.”
“Why?” The word was a plea.
“It’s not safe. The books… the healer said… the first moon cycle is fragile.” He sounded like he was reciting a prison sentence. His lips brushed her shoulder, a soft contradiction to his rigid body. “I won’t risk it. I won’t risk you.”
Her need curdled into a hot, slick anger. It pooled in her belly, lower. She was fucking ravenous for him. Every memory of his touch, his taste, his possession, played behind her eyes. Her skin felt too tight, too sensitive. The gentle pressure of his hand on her stomach was a torture. She wanted his nails digging in. She wanted his teeth.
She began to bait him.
She took showers with the door unlocked, singing softly, letting the steam curl out into the bedchamber. She’d emerge with just a thin, damp towel tied around her breasts, droplets tracing paths down her cleavage. She’d catch him watching, his gaze dark and hungry, before he’d forcibly turn back to his reports.
She wore only his old t-shirts to bed. They swam on her, the neckline sliding off one shoulder. She’d make a show of stretching, the hem riding high on her thighs. She’d pretend to be asleep, her leg thrown over his, her core pressed against his thigh.
He’d always, always, extract himself. He’d pace to the window, his back to her, his shoulders tense. Or he’d slip out to the balcony, returning hours later smelling of cold night air and frustrated wolf.
The rage built, a slow pressure cooker. It wasn’t just sexual frustration. It was the loss of autonomy. She was a doll to be carried, a vessel to be fed, a secret to be kept under glass. The brilliant, vicious Luna she was supposed to be becoming was smothered under his fear.
It broke on a Tuesday afternoon.
He’d found her in the sitting alcove, attempting to fold a stack of clean linens Mara had left. A simple, mindless task. Her back ached from sitting, and the mindless rhythm was a relief.
His shadow fell over her. “What are you doing?”
“Folding,” she said, not looking up. “It requires no heavy lifting. It poses no threat to national security.”
He plucked the half-folded sheet from her hands. “You’re straining your abdomen. The twisting motion.”
Something inside her snapped.
She stood up so fast the chair screeched back. “My abdomen is fine! I am fine! I am pregnant, Silas, not terminally ill! I am not a porcelain figurine!”
He dropped the sheet, his expression grim. “You are carrying our heir.”
“I am carrying a clump of cells that is currently making me nauseous and furious!” she shouted, the words echoing off the stone. “And I am still a person! I have needs! I want to walk by myself. I want to decide when I’m full. I want…” Her voice hitched, raw and painful. “I want my mate to fuck me until I can’t remember my own name.”
He flinched as if struck. A raw, wild heat flashed in his eyes, gone in an instant. “Sera, you know why I can’t.”
“I don’t know! I don’t accept it! Mara said no strenuous activity. This isn’t a fucking marathon, Silas! It’s us. It’s you, inside me. Where you’re supposed to be.” She was crying now, hot, angry tears. “You claim me every damn day with your rules and your hovering, but you won’t touch the one part of me that’s screaming for you. Is this what it’s going to be? For nine moons? You treating me like a fucking incubator?”
The word hung between them, cruel and deliberate.
His control shattered.
He didn’t speak. He moved. In two strides he was on her, his hands cupping her face, his mouth crashing down onto hers. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a reclaiming. It was hard and desperate and full of eight days of pent-up, terrified want. She kissed him back with equal fury, her teeth scraping his lip, her fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer.
He ripped the shirt she was wearing. The sound of tearing cotton was obscenely loud. He didn’t undress her. He pushed her back against the cold stone wall, his hands gripping her bare thighs, hiking them up around his waist. Her back scraped against the rough-hewn rock.
“You want me to fuck you?” he growled against her mouth, his breath scorching. “Is that what you need?”
“Yes,” she hissed, arching into him. “Yes, you bastard. Prove I’m still yours. Not just a vessel.”
He fumbled with the laces of his pants, his fingers uncharacteristically clumsy. He freed himself, thick and violently erect. He was not gentle. He didn’t ask. He guided himself to her entrance, found her soaking wet and ready, and drove into her in one brutal, perfect thrust.
She cried out, a sound of sheer relief. The stretch, the deep, filling ache, was everything. He didn’t pause. He set a punishing rhythm, slamming her against the wall with each stroke. The stone was cold, his body was burning heat, and the friction was exquisite.
“This what you wanted?” he gritted out, his forehead pressed to hers, his eyes blazing gold. “To feel me? To know I’m so fucking desperate for you I can’t think straight?”
“Harder,” she demanded, nails raking down his back. “Don’t you dare hold back.”
A guttural sound ripped from his throat. He hooked his arms under her knees, spreading her wider, angling deeper. Each thrust was a punctuation to his ragged words. “You. Are. Mine. Every. Part. Of. You.” He punctuated the last word with a deep grind that made her see stars.
Her climax took her violently, shuddering through her with a force that stole her voice. She convulsed around him, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically. He followed instantly, his own release a hoarse shout buried in the curve of her neck. He pulsed inside her, his body shuddering, his weight pinning her to the wall.
For long minutes, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the slow drip of condensation from a nearby ledge. He was still buried inside her, softening. Her legs, locked around his waist, began to tremble with fatigue.
Slowly, carefully, he slid out. He lowered her until her feet touched the floor, but her knees buckled. He caught her, sweeping her into his arms. He carried her to the bed, laying her down with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the frenzy moments before.
He fetched a damp cloth, cleaning her with a solemn, focused reverence. He didn’t speak. He dressed her in a fresh, soft nightgown, his hands shaking slightly.
When he finally slid into bed beside her, he pulled her against his chest. His heartbeat was a wild drum against her back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, his voice ragged.
“For what?” she mumbled, already sinking into exhaustion.
“For the wall. For being rough. I lost control.”
She turned in his arms, facing him. She touched his cheek, her anger spent, leaving a hollowed-out peace. “Don’t apologize for that. Never for that.” She took a shuddering breath. “Just… don’t shut me out. Don’t shut us out. I need your hands on me, Silas. Not just to carry me. To remind me I’m alive.”
He searched her face, his eyes guarded, haunted. “What if I hurt—”
She placed her fingers over his lips. “You won’t.” She said it with a conviction she didn’t entirely feel, but she needed him to believe it. “We’ll be careful. But we don’t stop.”
He closed his eyes, breathing her in. When he opened them, the fear was still there, but it was shared now. A burden split in two. He nodded, once. A truce. A new, precarious rule.
His hand slipped under her nightgown, settling over her stomach once more. This time, the touch was different. Not just protection. Possession. Connection.
“Okay,” he breathed.