“Did he hurt you?” The question carried layers of physical hurt, emotional hurt, the hurt of our entire situation. The hurt of seeing her daughter marked by the man who’d destroyed their lives.
“It’s not... what you think. Trust me.” The explanation tangled on my tongue, inadequate for the reality of what Damon and I had become.
“Men always are when they want something without paying the price.” My mother’s voice could have cut glass. She set downher teacup with a precise click that somehow conveyed entire paragraphs of disapproval.
How could I tell my mother that despite everything despite the banishment, the public humiliation, the months of suffering my body still craved his touch? That last night I’d let him worship me with his mouth while guards stood outside? That I’d bitten my pillow to muffle his name when release crashed through me?
And how could I even begin to explain his nightmares when I could barely understand them.
My father finally looked directly at me, and I saw the conflict in his eyes. “He rejected you publicly,” he said, voice level but vibrating with suppressed rage. “Tore our family apart. Carved the mark from your throat while the council watched.”
Damon appeared in the doorway like a summoned demon, dressed for the day in a charcoal suit that emphasized his broad shoulders. His hair was still damp from showering, and I caught myself remembering how it had felt under my fingers last night. He took in the scene with one comprehensive glance, my parents’ rigid posture, my visible marks, the tension thick enough to choke on.
“I trust breakfast is satisfactory?” He addressed my parents with cool courtesy, but his eyes lingered on me. Checking on me. On them. Making sure the conversation stayed within whatever bounds he’d set for this visit.
“More than we deserve, according to you.” My father’s response walked the line between gratitude and insult with the skill of a man who’d spent decades in politics.
The pause stretched too long, filled with unspoken truths and careful calculations. My mother reached for another pastry she wouldn’t eat. My father straightened in his seat, his posture turning rigid. And Damon stood in the doorway like a guardian or a jailer, I couldn’t decide which.
“Perhaps we should discuss the baby’s health,” my mother said finally, voice bright with false cheer.
Damon moved into the room properly, claiming space with the casual authority of someone who owned everything in it. “The healer will examine her this afternoon,” he said, answering my mother’s redirected concern. “Every precaution will be taken for the pregnancy.”
The possession in his voice made my parents exchange another look. Their daughter, back in the King’s hands, marked and monitored and controlled. The careful distance they’d maintained began to crack, showing the pain beneath.
“More tea?” my mother asked, reaching for the pot with hands that barely trembled.
And so we continued our careful breakfast, all of us pretending we weren’t broken people in a broken situation, held together by threads of biology and need and secrets nobody was ready to speak aloud. But I didn’t miss the way my father’s eyes kept returning to my marks, or how my mother gripped her teacup like a weapon.
32
— • —
Rhea
I was almost at twenty weeks now, and my feet had started to swell. I could barely remember the days or nights. Everything was a huge blur to me.
Morning sunlight streamed through the gauze curtains, painting golden stripes across the silk sheets. I woke to the sound of dishes clinking, a domestic melody that had become strangely familiar over the past few days. Through sleep-heavy eyes, I watched Damon arrange a breakfast tray on the sitting area table, his movements careful, as if the placement of each item carried monumental importance.
The Lycan King, who commanded armies and controlled territories, was personally selecting which berries looked freshest, which pastries were still warm from the oven. He’d traded his usual commanding presence for something softer,almost uncertain, like a man learning a new language through careful practice.
The transformation was jarring. This was the same man who’d carved my throat in front of the council, who’d banished my family to the outbacks without blinking. Now he studied a pregnancy nutrition guide propped against the teapot, occasionally glancing between its pages and the food selections, making adjustments with the focus he usually reserved for battle strategies.
His hair was still damp from his morning run, dark strands curling at his neck in a way that made him look younger, less like the feared Lycan King and more like the man I’d glimpsed so briefly during our heat-driven night. The charcoal Henley stretched across his shoulders as he reached for a plate, the fabric outlining muscles that spoke of predawn training sessions he still maintained despite everything else demanding his attention.
The scene felt surreal, like walking through someone else’s dream. Each morning for the past few days, he’d arrived with breakfast personally selected from the kitchen’s offerings. Yesterday it had been fresh strawberries because he’d noticed me eyeing them at dinner. The day before, it was croissants still warm from the oven because I’d mentioned missing French pastries during my exile. Today, the aroma of cinnamon rolls made my traitorous stomach growl, announcing my waking state.
He turned at the sound, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. The light caught his features, highlighting the exhaustion he couldn’t quite hide, the new lines that months of bond sickness had carved into his face. But there was more to his expressionnow; a tentative hope that made my chest tight with emotions I couldn’t afford to examine.
“You need to eat more. The pup needs nutrients.” His voice carried none of its usual command, instead holding an uncertainty that didn’t suit him.
I pushed myself up against the pillows, acutely aware of how the nightgown clung to my changed body. “Since when do you care about my eating habits?”
“Since always. I just... lost sight of that for a while.” He carried the tray over, setting it on the bedside table with movements that spoke of practiced care. The china didn’t even clink, each piece placed with precision that seemed at odds with his large hands.
The tray held enough food for three people: scrambled eggs with herbs, whole grain toast with various spreads, fresh fruit arranged in a colorful array, yogurt with granola, herbal tea, orange juice, and the cinnamon rolls whose scent had betrayed my consciousness. Small dishes held prenatal vitamins, arranged like an offering beside a note in his handwriting listing their benefits.
“This is too much,” I protested, even as my mouth watered at the spread.
