chapter 96 She Has the Same Genetic Traits as Me
Lyra's POV
She is ours, my wolf insisted, her voice reverberating through my consciousness with absolute certainty. I can feel our bloodline in her. This is our cub.
"That's impossible," I whispered under my breath, careful not to wake Elena who was sleeping fitfully on the medical cot. "Kieran is my daughter. The child who's been lying in that hospital bed for three years, the one I gave birth to."
Our blood calls to our blood, my wolf responded stubbornly. I cannot explain the other child, but this one carries our essence.
I stared down at Elena's peaceful face, trying to reconcile what my wolf was telling me with everything I thought I knew. "You're saying I have two daughters? That doesn't make sense."
I know only what I feel. This child is ours.
The conversation with my wolf left me more confused than ever. Werewolf instincts were rarely wrong about bloodline connections, but the logical implications were staggering. How could Elena be my daughter when I had clear memories of giving birth to Kieran? When I had seen Elena as an infant with Seraphina?
My internal turmoil was interrupted by the constant demands of the shelter. As the only qualified medical professional on duty during the night shift, I found myself moving between patients, checking on elderly pack members with chronic conditions, treating children with minor injuries from the hasty evacuation, and maintaining order among increasingly restless families.
Every ten minutes, I returned to Elena's bedside to monitor her vital signs and check for any signs of delayed allergic reactions. Her breathing remained steady, and the angry red welts on her skin had begun to fade, but she remained deeply asleep, occasionally murmuring incoherent words.
By the early hours of morning, exhaustion was taking its toll. My own allergic reaction had subsided thanks to the antihistamines, but the combination of stress, lack of sleep, and emotional turmoil was wearing me down. When another medical volunteer arrived for the next shift, I gratefully accepted the opportunity to rest.
I settled into a chair beside Elena's cot, intending to close my eyes for just a few minutes. But as soon as I relaxed, Elena's small hand found mine, her fingers curling around my palm with surprising strength for someone so recently recovered from a medical crisis.
"Mama," she whispered in her sleep, her voice so soft I might have imagined it. "Mama... stay..."
The word sent another jolt through my system, and my wolf stirred with renewed intensity. But exhaustion was stronger than confusion, and I felt my eyelids growing heavy despite my racing thoughts.
I must have started to nod off, because suddenly I was falling forward, my body giving in to the fatigue I'd been fighting all night. Strong hands caught me before I could tumble from the chair, and I looked up to find Clara's concerned face above mine.
"Oh, dear," she said softly, helping me steady myself. "You're completely exhausted. How long have you been awake?"
"I'm fine," I protested weakly.
"You're not fine. You're running on fumes." Clara pulled another chair close to Elena's bedside. "I'm going to help you watch over her. You shouldn't be doing this alone."
"Seraphina should be here," I said, unable to keep the criticism from my voice.
"Yes, she should be," Clara agreed with unusual sharpness. "But since she's apparently more interested in maintaining her social connections than caring for her daughter, we'll have to manage."
As if summoned by our conversation, Elena stirred again, her small voice calling out clearly in the quiet medical bay.
"Mama... need mama..."
Clara's expression softened as she looked down at the little girl. "She's been asking for her mother all night, hasn't she? Poor little thing."
Something in Clara's tone made me look at her more closely. "Clara, can I ask you something about werewolf development patterns?"
"Of course, dear."
"Is it unusual for werewolf children to have delayed speech development?"
Clara considered the question thoughtfully. "It can happen, especially in certain bloodlines. Your mother once told me that you didn't speak until you were nearly four years old. Before that, you would only say one word: 'mama.' It was quite concerning until you finally started talking normally."
The information sent a chill through me. "My mother told you that?"
"Oh yes. She said it was a family trait that appeared occasionally in Shadow pack females. Something about the connection between mother and child being so strong that it took time for the children to find their individual voices." Clara smiled at the memory. "She was quite proud of how special that made you."
She carries our bloodline, my wolf said again. The same gifts, the same patterns. This is our daughter.
I looked down at Elena, trying to see her objectively, but the doubts were multiplying rather than resolving. The delayed speech pattern Clara described was remarkably similar to Elena's condition. And the allergic reaction we'd both experienced to the silver-leaf grass suggested a genetic sensitivity that should only appear in related bloodlines.
But none of this explained how Elena could be my daughter when I had distinct memories of my own pregnancy and birth experience.
"Clara," I said carefully, my voice barely steady, "do you know anything about the circumstances of Elena's birth? Where it took place, who was present?"
Clara frowned slightly. "Seraphina disappeared for several months when she was pregnant. Said she wanted privacy during such a delicate time. Then one day, about three months after Dorian announced her pregnancy, she simply returned with Elena. We never really got details about where the birth took place or what happened during those missing months."
Three months. The timing felt significant, though I couldn't immediately place why.
"I see," I said, though I was seeing far too much and none of it made sense.
Elena stirred in her sleep, her grip on my hand tightening as if she sensed my distress.
One thing was becoming clear: I had too many questions and not enough answers.
I needed to talk to Dorian. Not to make accusations I couldn't prove, but to ask questions that might help me understand what had really happened three and a half years ago.