Page 117 of The Alpha's Crimson Vow

The memory hits me like a wave, vivid and unrelenting. The pain. The sheer, mind shattering agony. It wasn’t just unbearable—it was lethal. The kind of pain that threatened to rip me apart from the inside out. I remember gripping the sheets, my body drenched in sweat, every muscle in me screaming for relief that wouldn’t come. I had known giving birth to a shifter would hurt, but nothing could have prepared me for how intense it was. It felt like my body was breaking, like something inside me was being shattered beyond repair.

And then there was Alex. I remember the way he held my hand, his grip ironclad, his forehead damp with sweat even though he wasn’t the one in labor. I remember Alice’s voice, firm yet reassuring, telling us to share the pain through the mate bond. To shoulder it together.

So we did.

I let him in, let him take some of the unbearable weight, and the second it happened, I saw the way his whole body tensed, his jaw going rigid, his breath hitching like he’d been punched in the gut. He felt it. My pain. He took it without hesitation, without a single complaint.

“Stay with me,” I had choked out, my nails digging into his skin.

His gaze had locked onto mine, fierce and unwavering. “Always.”

And he did. He stayed with me through every agonizing second, taking it all alongside me. I saw it in his eyes—the struggle, the strain, the sheer effort of enduring it. He would have taken all of it if he could have. Without question. Without regret.

That’s the kind of man he is. That’s the kind of father Damien has.

I smile to myself as I stroke Damien’s tiny fingers.

“You have no idea how much your daddy loves you,” I whisper. “One day, you’ll understand.”

He gurgles in response, utterly content, and my heart swells.

Then, a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Your Majesty.”

I don’t react at first. Not because I didn’t hear it, but because, for a moment, I forget that I am the one being addressed.

“Your Majesty,” the voice calls again, a little firmer this time.

I blink, lifting my gaze from my son, and finally turn. A young maiden stands at the entrance of the balcony, her hands clasped in front of her, posture perfectly poised. She lowers her head slightly in deference before speaking.

“The guests in the hall are waiting to be graced by your presence.”

I smile. “Thank you.”

She bows and steps aside, waiting for me to follow.

Your Majesty.

Even now, the title feels foreign, like a fine cloak that hasn’t quite molded to my frame. Wearing it still requires adjustment, the weight of it settling on my shoulders in ways I never expected.Being queen of any kingdom is a monumental change—but being queen of a wolf kingdom? That is something else entirely.

Alex has been my anchor, guiding me through this new life with unwavering support. He’s helped me ease into the role as much as he can, ensuring I’m never overwhelmed. I’m grateful that I’m not burdened with too many official royal duties—at least, not yet. But when the time comes, I know I’ll be ready to take up the challenge of building this kingdom with Alex. .

My heart blooms as I think about how he has been steadfast in his support of me—not just as his queen, but as the woman I was before all of this. He encourages me to continue my career, never asking me to sacrifice the parts of myself that existed long before a crown was placed on my head.

For that, I am endlessly grateful.

I rise from my seat and kiss the top of Damien’s head before allowing the maid to take him for a moment. Another maiden hurries forward, ready to escort me inside to prepare.

As I step into my chambers, the room is already alive with movement. Maids flutter about like butterflies, each one tending to a specific task with meticulous precision.

“My Queen,” one of them murmurs, stepping forward with a soft brush, immediately setting to work on my hair. Another smooths out my gown, while two more carefully tend to Damien, making sure he is comfortable and content.

The entire process is fluid, seamless, a well-rehearsed ritual that I have not yet grown used to. I watch in the mirror as delicate hands weave through my locks, brushing and styling with expert care. The dress they slip over my frame is a masterpiece—deep blue silk, embroidered with golden threads that glimmer like captured stardust. A gown fit for a queen.

By the time they finish, I look every bit the royal I am meant to be.

Damien is placed back in my arms, wrapped in fine, soft linens, his little body warm against mine.

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