Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One
ELEVEN MONTHS AGO

I spend the next few days obsessing over the details, fully aware that Niklath will notice even the smallest change. He is that kind of man—the type who can sense when a flower has bloomed before its time. He pauses at the doorway if my scent shifts or if the books on the shelf are no longer in the same order. Yet, I hope that this time, somehow, I might catch him off guard in the best way. He has already commented that I smell different. Once, he leaned in, breathed in near my collarbone, and asked if I had changed my perfume. I said yes, and he didn’t question me further, but I had caught him sniffing the air more than once when he thought I wasn’t watching.

It’s Friday evening. We both agree to leave work early, though, as always, Niklath manages to leave only fifteen minutes after I do. I call ahead and arrange for one of his favorite meals to be delivered to the penthouse: slow-cooked short ribs, garlic whipped potatoes, warm focaccia, and that fennel citrus salad he once said reminded him of summer along the Italian coast, the year his pack held council there. Candles flicker across the living room, and a soft instrumental melody gently fills the space. The scent of bergamot and lavender oil lingers in the air from the diffuser in our bedroom, weaving through the quiet like a memory.

At the center of it all sits a single white gift box neatly placed on the dining table, wrapped in pale grey satin ribbon. Inside, nestled in soft layers of tissue, rests the softest cotton onesie I could find—ivory and gentle on the skin, stitched with a small sailboat in deep blue thread. Beneath it, tucked carefully in the corner, lies the test—the only one I have kept. Positive.

I don’t bother to include a card or any written speech. The truth stands on its own, quiet and complete.

He walks in just after seven. The wind has tousled his hair, and he carries his coat over his arm. His expression is drawn from the day but already softens when he sees the light around him. I greet him with a glass of wine—non-alcoholic for myself—and press a kiss to his lips.

“You did all this?” he asks, his voice lower now, quiet with surprise, a smile beginning to touch the corners of his mouth.

I nod. “It’s a quiet celebration.”

“For what?”

I smile mischievously. “You will see.”

We sit and share the meal. I watch him as he eats, his shoulders relaxing, his face slowly releasing the weight of the day. He talks about meetings, territorial discussions, and a young wolf in Zurich who shows potential. I listen, smiling whenever he looks at me. I pretend my hands are steady as I lift the bottle to refill his glass.

After dessert—a dark chocolate mousse I barely touch—I rise and move behind him. My hands settle gently on his shoulders, and I bend down to kiss the crown of his head.

“There is something for you,” I say, tilting my chin toward the gift box.

He turns his head slightly and then rises from his chair. I step back, my hands folded at my waist, my heart pressed against my ribs. He unties the ribbon with the same reverence he once used to untangle the strands of my hair. The paper rustles open beneath his fingers, and he stares in silence at first. His fingers move over the onesie, lingering on the sailboat. Then he sees the test. He lifts his eyes to mine, and something deep within him shatters into light. His silence stretches through the room, rich with everything he feels but has not yet said.

“You are…” he begins, then stands straighter.

I nod. “Yes.”

He steps forward, cupping my face in his hands, searching me with the quiet intensity that only he carries.

“Miara,” he says softly, and then again, deeper this time, “Mia.”

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. “I did not know how to tell you.”

He presses his forehead to mine, then kisses the tip of my nose and my lips. “You just did. And it is perfect.”

His hands trail downward, finding my lower abdomen and pausing over the place where our child grows. He touches me with care, almost reverence, the way an Alpha touches what belongs to him—what comes from him.

“You will be a fierce but gentle father,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat.

He answers with that voice that steadies storms, low and reverent against my ear, “And you will be the heart of our lineage. You carry our future. That is why your scent has shifted. You clever little mate.”

We remain there in the golden hush of our home, the city glowing beneath our windows like stars placed only for us. This moment roots itself deep inside me. I have always longed for this~my own family, a place to belong without effort, without question. And perhaps he has never said the word love aloud, but I would be blind to overlook the way he guards me, lifts me, and treats me as his equal. There is a ferocity in the way he loves. A discipline in the way he holds me close.

He kisses me again, slower this time. Less a touch, more a possession. And then he speaks in a voice wrapped in need and command.

“Come with me.”

He guides me to the bedroom with a grip firm around my waist. His fingers slip beneath the hem of my dress, dragging it up my thighs, over my hips, past my breasts, and off entirely. He lays it carefully over the armchair. Then comes the rest—bra, panties, everything removed with deliberate patience, as if undressing a queen. His eyes rake over me with the hunger of a man who has waited too long.

“You are mine,” he growls, his voice still gentle, but burning now with something primal. “Say it.”

“I am yours,” I whisper, breath catching as he pulls me against him.

He kisses my throat, my collarbone, the soft curve just beneath my breast, and each touch feels like a seal. A brand.

“Lie down.”

I do. I stretch across the bed, and he follows with a quiet growl. His mouth explores every inch of me, lingering between my thighs, tongue slow and unrelenting, until my hips rise off the bed, seeking more. My moan fills the room, and he shudders against me, the sound driving him deeper into his need. When he moves above me, the moment thickens. His body hovers for a second, long enough to make me ache. Then he pushes inside with a single, slow thrust, and I gasp at the fullness. At the stretch. At the way he groans against my mouth.

He holds still for a breath, and then begins to move. His strokes are slow, deep, and devastating. Each one lands like a promise. I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs. My fingers claw along the ridges of his back. He kisses me through it, again and again, lips dragging over my jaw, my cheek, my temple, as if he cannot bear to be parted from even an inch of me.

“You feel made for me,” he murmurs, voice ragged, German words slipping between English as his control thins. “Ganz mine. Every inch of you.”

I cling to him, trembling now, meeting every thrust with rising need. He bites my shoulder—not to harm, but to mark. To remember. And I come undone beneath him, moaning his name, surrendering completely. He follows a heartbeat later, thrusting harder now, deeper, his hands gripping my hips as he spills into me with a growl low and raw. His body convulses, and he presses his forehead to mine, panting in silence, still inside me.

We stay tangled, our breath slowing together. My palm strokes his damp neck. His hand spreads across my belly. His voice returns in a deep whisper.

“She already knows,” he says, kissing the skin below my navel. “Our little wolf knows she is adored.”

And in this moment, with his weight covering me and the world paused around us, I feel entirely claimed. Entirely cherished. Entirely his.