Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Two
SIX MONTHS AGO

“Niklath… stooop,” I laugh, unable to steady my voice through the ripple of giggles that escape my chest. My fingers twist in the pillows, breathless, as he kisses the inside of my thigh with slow, featherlight intent. I squirm beneath him, but his hands stay firm, his mouth curved with that boyish smirk that has undone me in a thousand silent ways.

“You are absolutely insufferable,” I manage between gasps, my cheeks flushed, my body heavy with the kind of joy that once felt distant and foreign.

He grins, unbothered by the words, and kisses his way up until his head rests against my belly. The weight of him there stills me. Not from laughter now, but from the tenderness in it, the steady reverence in his hands. He cups the round curve of my bump, palms wide, strong and careful, as though holding something ancient and holy. She shifts beneath his touch, a ripple deep under the surface, and we both still.

His eyes widen. “Did you feel that?”

I nod, brushing his hair away as he lowers his head again, resting his cheek against the fullness that holds our daughter.

“Bonjour, ma fille,” he murmurs, voice low, filled with a love so full it wraps around both of us. “Tu es déjà si forte… et têtue comme ta mère.”

I smile, breath caught at the softness of his French against my skin, words carried gently through the warmth of my body to hers. He kisses my stomach again, then again, slower this time, longer, as though hoping she might feel him and remember him when she comes earthside.

“Your maman laughs too much when I kiss her knees,” he adds in a teasing whisper. “You will learn that soon enough.”

His lashes brush against me. His fingers trace the line of my belly. Thirty-one weeks and three days. Thirty-one weeks and three days of dreaming about her mouth, her eyes, the way her fingers might curl around mine.

“I wonder what she will look like,” I whisper, tracing a slow circle over the place where she pressed earlier.

He lifts his gaze, kisses my stomach again, then meets my eyes. “She will carry the mark of both of us. The strength of my blood. The warmth of your spirit.”

I smile, heart swelling. “Do you think she will shift early?”

He nods, quiet and sure. “Her wolf will stir strong. She will sense more than most, and sooner. But she will carry your steadiness. Your grace. She will learn quickly, and lead without needing to raise her voice.”

I laugh softly. “Even if she inherits my stubbornness?”

He raises a brow, amused. “Then I hope the pack is prepared.”

My hand glides through his hair, slower now. “She might stand out.”

“She will stand tall,” he says, voice certain. “As the daughter of an Alpha and his chosen mate, she will carry more than just strength. She will understand the balance between instinct and intention. That will be her gift.”

He rests his cheek once more against the curve of our daughter, eyes closing as though already memorising her presence.

“She will be powerful,” he murmurs. “Because she is ours.”

He rises beside me, careful and close, and his arm curls around my waist with the protectiveness that always lives beneath his stillness. His hand never leaves the swell of our daughter. I turn into him, noses close, foreheads touching, eyes closed. The silence drapes around us like a blessing. My heart slows beneath the weight of his breath. The quiet feels sacred.

“I want to stay in this bed for the next ten weeks,” I whisper. “Just us.”

“We could,” he murmurs, lips brushing mine. “But we might run out of mango sorbet.”

That makes me laugh again, and he kisses me with more intent, deeper, anchored. The kiss grows into something else. Something tethered to the way we love. When we part, he places his palm against my heart.

“You have given me everything I never thought to want. And now you are giving me her.”

Tears burn at the corners of my eyes. “You make me feel safe. Like even if the sky split open, we would remain steady.”

“We would,” he whispers against my lips. “Because you are my home. You and her. Nothing else lives at the centre.”

She shifts again, a firm kick against his palm.

“She agrees,” I say.

He chuckles, a low, prideful sound that carries something primal beneath it. “She is already protecting you.”

That evening, we arrive at my father’s estate for dinner. The gravel sings beneath the tyres as the driver slows before the grand front steps. Niklath steps out first, straightening to his full height, his presence expanding into the cold air. He circles the car and opens my door, extending his hand with the poised command of a true Alpha. His fingers tighten slightly as mine slip into his. His posture speaks of pride and control, of a wolf who protects what belongs to him.

Dinner has been planned as a formal gathering. My father requested it, and Niklath’s parents are among the guests. They have just returned from a curated six month’s of luxury—a leisurely drift through Tuscan vineyards, Grecian coves, and Maldivian private islands where only legacy bloodlines tread without restriction. They collect art and laughter. They sign postcards with their initials embossed in gold. They live lives untouched by burden.

We step into the foyer hand in hand, my dress shaped to the curve of our daughter. Emerald green. Clean lines. An open back that Niklath could barely keep his hands off during the drive. His palm settles at the base of my spine as we enter through the archway, warm light spilling across polished floors.

The first voice that greets us is my father’s—booming, proud, deliberate. The second belongs to Madame Vollenweider, already commenting on the new wall art. And the third…

My step falters.

She stands at the base of the staircase. Arms folded across a dress far too tight for modesty, her posture sharpened like a blade. Her stare fixes on me with something closer to calculation than surprise. Her hair has changed. Her scent has shifted. She watches me like she never left.

Angelica.

And beside her stands a man I have never seen.

He towers over her, tall just like Niklath. Broad shoulders beneath a heavy black coat. His jaw is square, expression impassive. His scent moves before he does. Earth and frost and something that bristles against my skin. Wolf.

Alpha.

I feel the shift before I hear it. Niklath’s chest tightens. His stance alters, shoulders pulling back. A soft, low sound stirs in his throat. It is quiet. Almost silent. But every werewolf in the room hears it. A low growl rises from him, instinctive and controlled, drawn from something ancient within. He is not challenging. He is warning. And in the pause that follows, I realise what Angelica has brought to my father’s estate.

She definitely came back to cause more trouble.