Page 14 of Betrayed Alpha Bride

“Nico!” I yell, trying to get through to him. His eyes are filming over with milky white, and as he gnashes his teeth together, spit foams at the edge of his mouth.

What the fuck am I supposed to do? He’s having a seizure!

Nico lunges at me, snapping, and my wolf responds. A growl rips from deep inside my chest, rumbling through my teeth and echoing around the forest. Nico goes limp under me and whimpers a little, but his eyes stay white and unfocused.

“Nico!” Clara screams, catching up to us. She throws herself down beside me and grabs Nico’s hand, clinging to him.

“What did you do to him?” she screams. “What happened? Nico, wake up!”

“All I did was pin him,” I answer. “I didn’t want him to keep running in that state.”

Clara pushes me out of the way, shooting me a fierce glare. As she strokes Nico’s cheek and croons to him, he slowly blinks. When his eyes finally open, they are soft and honey-gold again.

“Mom?” he whispers.

Clara grabs him and clutches him to her chest, sobbing with relief. I watch them both, trying to sort through the turmoil of emotions rioting in my guts.

I’ve had a son for a couple of hours, and I’m already overwhelmed. How does anyone do this?

Watching Clara rock Nico and stroke his hair, I realize that I could withstand any pain if I knew that he would be okay. I suddenly feel a vulnerability I’d never imagined, but also an incredible strength that comes with it.

“It’s his shifter gene,” I say. “He’s going through the awakening.”

“I thought so,” Clara answers. “But isn’t the first shift always on the full moon?”

“It is,” I agree. “And it’s only a crescent right now. This doesn’t make sense. How long has this been going on?”

“At least a month. Maybe a little longer.”

I shake my head. “He should have turned by now, but it’s lucky he didn’t. Do you know what can happen if a wolf shifts for the first time without any guidance?”

Clara just nods, and in her gold eyes, I see a terrible despair. The lines on her face suddenly stand out to me, and I wonder how long she has gone without a decent night’s sleep.

Not just sleep, but the constant worry gnawing at her day after day, thinking about Nico’s suffering. I’ve experienced this worry for only several minutes, but this has been her whole life.

I reach out and rub her shoulder gently, trying to give her strength. She’s been desperate and helpless for such a long time now, trying to cope with this alone. Even though I’m still upset she didn’t tell me about Nico, I realize how incredibly difficult her struggle has been, and my heart goes out to her.

“Here,” I whisper, holding out my hands. “Give him to me.”

Clara reluctantly loosens her grip, and I gather Nico in my arms. He snuggles against my chest, and a wave of love sweeps through me, so powerful that it hurts. The way he rests his head on my chest and gently clings to me touches me deeply. He’s never met me until today, but instinctively, he knows he’s safe.

We walk home quietly, Clara following behind us. I wonder how many times this has happened, and if she’s had to carry Nico home by herself.

He’s not heavy to me, but for her, he would be. She must be exhausted. Physically and emotionally.

By the time we reach the road, the sun has sunk behind the horizon, leaving only a dull red glow against the darkening sky. The street is quiet, with only the faint sounds of families settling down for the evening accompanying the lights coming on in the houses’ front windows.

When we get back, I wait for Clara to open the door and carry Nico in behind her. She checks to see if he is asleep, then puts a finger to her lips. Nodding in agreement, I follow her to Nico’s room, where we tuck him in and tiptoe out of the room.

I take one last look at my son, making sure his breathing is slow and even and that he’s properly asleep. Satisfied that he’s truly resting, I follow Clara down to the kitchen.

When we get there, she turns on a lamp and makes coffee mechanically, collapsing at the table with her hands wrapped around the cup. I realize then that she wasn’t making coffee for me—this is her usual routine after bringing Nico home after one of these episodes, and she’s repeating it on autopilot.

I make a cup for myself and sit down in front of Clara, but she barely acknowledges me. Her eyes stare dully at the tabletop, and her face is drawn with exhaustion and worry.

“How many times has this happened?” I ask.

“Too many,” she answers, her voice rough. “All the time. I don’t know.”

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