CHAPTER 87 : MATERNAL INSTINCTS

CHAPTER 87 : MATERNAL INSTINCTS
Samora’s POV
The sound of Silven’s cry shattered the silence, slicing through the night like glass. It wasn’t his usual soft whimper for milk or the tired fussing of a restless baby. This was different—frantic, sharp, terrified. My heart lurched. I was already halfway down the hall before I realized I’d moved, my bare feet slapping against the cold marble floor as I ran toward the nursery.
When I burst through the door, the nightlight cast the room in a dim, golden haze. Everything looked the same at first glance—the crib in its corner, the toys neatly arranged, the faint hum of the monitor. But Silven’s cries cut deeper, raw and desperate. I rushed to him, my hands trembling as I lifted his small body from the crib.
“Shh, sweetheart, Mommy’s here,” I whispered, trying to soothe him. His cheeks were damp, his little hands clutched at my collarbone as if holding on for safety. I rocked him, murmuring softly, but the sound of his sobs didn’t ease.
That was when I noticed it.
His blanket felt wrong. Not the soft cotton texture I’d held every day since his birth—there was something coarse, uneven beneath my fingertips. I carried him to the nightlight and looked closer. My stomach dropped.
Along the edge of the fabric were faint, deliberate scratches—tiny cuts, stitched through the weave as if with a needle. They weren’t there before. I would have noticed. I always noticed.
My breath hitched. Someone had touched my baby’s things.
Fear hit first—then anger, hot and consuming, rushing through my chest until I could hardly breathe. “Who’s been in here?” I demanded, turning toward the door. My voice came out sharp, fierce, shaking with fury.
The nursemaid—Elena—appeared in the doorway, her face pale. “Ma’am, I—just came to check the temperature,” she stammered. “Silven seemed restless earlier, I—”
“Don’t lie to me,” I cut in. “Who else came in here?”
She blinked rapidly, her eyes darting away for a fraction of a second. Guilt. I saw it, quick as lightning. My stomach turned to ice.
Before I could press further, the sound of footsteps thundered down the hall. Adrian appeared in the doorway, half-dressed, his hair tousled from sleep. His expression hardened instantly. “Samora, what is it this time?”
“This time?” The disbelief in my voice cracked into rage. I held up the blanket, the faint marks glinting under the dim light. “Our son’s crib was tampered with! Someone touched his things—someone touched him!”
He frowned, stepping closer, but his tone remained maddeningly calm. “Let me see.”
I thrust the blanket toward him, my hand shaking. “Look! Those aren’t wrinkles or frayed stitches. Someone did this deliberately.”
Adrian ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling sharply. “Samora, you’ve been on edge for days. You haven’t slept. Every noise, every shadow—”
“Because every shadow in this house feels like a threat!” I snapped, clutching Silven tighter against me. “Don’t tell me I’m imagining this. Don’t tell me to calm down when our son could have been hurt.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience fraying. “You’re exhausted. You’ve barely eaten. You’re seeing things that aren’t—”
“Don’t you dare.” My voice dropped to a whisper, cold and trembling. “Don’t you dare stand there and tell me this is in my head.”
For a long moment, we just stared at each other. His jaw flexed, his expression torn between frustration and doubt. The silence stretched, broken only by Silven’s soft whimpers against my shoulder.
Finally, I spoke again—quieter this time, but with the kind of certainty only fear could give. “I’m his mother, Adrian. I feel it when something is wrong. You can dismiss me, you can call me paranoid, but I know when my child isn’t safe. I can feel it in my blood.”
Something flickered in his eyes—a crack in his confidence, a sliver of uncertainty that softened the line of his mouth. He sighed heavily, his voice lower when he finally spoke. “What do you want me to do?”
“Replace them,” I said without hesitation. “Every single person who sets foot in this room. The nurses, the cleaners, the nannies—everyone. I want them gone.”
“That’s a bit extreme—”
“Then so am I.” My voice broke, a sharp edge of desperation bleeding through. “If you want me to breathe in this house again, if you want me to stop looking over my shoulder every second, then you’ll do it. You’ll protect him.”
He studied me for a moment longer. Pride warred with reason in his expression. I could see the argument forming behind his lips, the Alpha in him resisting, but then his gaze flicked to Silven—our son, small and trembling in my arms—and something in his face finally yielded.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “If this is what it takes for you to feel safe, I’ll replace them. All of them.”
Relief rushed through me, though it was thin and fragile, as if the air might shatter it. I nodded, clutching Silven closer, letting the fight drain out of my voice. “Thank you,” I whispered.
But as he turned to leave, the unease didn’t fade. It clung to me like static, a hum beneath my skin that refused to quiet. Even as the house grew still again, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t safe—that replacing the staff was only treating the surface of something much darker.
Hours later, long after Adrian had gone back to bed, I found myself pacing the hall outside the nursery, Silven asleep against my shoulder. The mansion was too quiet. The kind of quiet that waits.
As I moved past the west corridor, a faint murmur caught my attention—soft, hushed voices threading through the dark. I froze.
“…keep switching the formula,” a woman whispered.
The words were sharp, deliberate. I recognized that voice instantly—Celeste.
My pulse stuttered.
I pressed myself against the wall, inching closer, my ears straining to catch the rest.
The second voice was lower—Elena, the nursemaid. Her tone trembled. “But ma’am, if anyone notices—”
“They won’t,” Celeste cut in coldly. “You’ll do as you’re told. A few more days, and he’ll be exactly where we want him.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Formula. Switching the formula. My mind reeled. The marks on the blanket, the sudden cries, the sleepless nights—all of it aligned like puzzle pieces snapping into place. This wasn’t paranoia. This wasn’t exhaustion. This was deliberate.
They weren’t just tampering. They were poisoning.
My hands shook as I adjusted Silven in my arms, his tiny face nestled against me. The warmth of his skin, the soft rise and fall of his chest—it grounded me, kept me from falling apart right there in the corridor.
I bit down on my lip to keep from gasping aloud. Fury burned up through my throat, wild and choking. Celeste’s voice drifted again, softer now, almost smug.
“Adrian thinks she’s losing her mind,” she said. “By the time she figures it out, it’ll be too late.”
I pressed a hand against the wall to steady myself, my nails digging into the wallpaper. Every word sliced through me like a blade.
Adrian thought I was imagining things. He’d looked at me like I was fragile, unstable. And all the while, the danger wasn’t in my head—it was in this house. In the people he trusted. In the walls we both called home.
The conversation ended with the soft click of a door. Footsteps faded into the distance, leaving me trembling in the dark.
I turned and slipped back toward the nursery, every movement careful, silent. When I reached the crib, I laid Silven down gently and sank into the rocking chair beside him. The faint glow from the nightlight painted his face in gold.
I brushed a fingertip across his tiny hand. “You’re safe, my love,” I whispered, though I knew it was only half true. “I promise, I won’t let them touch you again.”
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. There wasn’t room for weakness anymore. Only resolve.
If Adrian wouldn’t see the truth, I would make him. If he wouldn’t protect our son, I would.
Because I wasn’t just a frightened wife in a house full of secrets. I was a mother. And I could feel danger like a pulse in the air—steady, certain, undeniable.
They thought they could make me doubt myself. They thought they could use my fear against me.
But they’d made one mistake.
They touched my child.
And that was something I would never forgive.