Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Four
SIX MONTHS AGO

I feel the warmth of his lips before I even open my eyes. They skim across my shoulder, firm and familiar, coaxing a soft sigh from somewhere deep inside me. I shift toward him, drawn instinctively by the scent that grounds me more than rest ever could. Niklath presses another kiss at the curve of my neck, slower this time, as if he already knows I am smiling into the pillow.

“Time to get up,” he murmurs close to my skin.

“Why?” I mumble, eyes still shut, voice sleep-laced.

“Because we are going somewhere,” he says, and pauses before adding, “And I will not tell you where.”

I groan without much commitment. “Is this a board meeting in disguise?”

He chuckles, a sound that hums low in his chest and vibrates right through mine. That sound, that deep rumble that belongs to him and no one else, always leaves me quietly undone.

“No boardrooms. No calls. Just you, me, and a surprise.”

My eyes flutter open slowly, the morning light pouring in as he leans closer. One hand finds the curve of my belly beneath the fabric of my nightdress, and he rests there, fingers splayed wide, thumb moving in slow circles as though already soothing the child inside. He kisses my forehead with soft precision.

“Dress comfortably. Wear flats. That is all I will say.”

He leaves with a smirk, dodging the pillow I throw his way.

The drive out of the city is quiet in the best way. We roll the windows down slightly, letting the fresh Zürich air carry in traces of pine and earth. Niklath drives one-handed, his other palm steady on my thigh, thumb stroking idle patterns over the fabric of my leggings. Every few minutes he glances my way, saying nothing, just watching me with that calm contentment that never leaves his face when we are alone.

“When do you plan on starting your leave?” he asks as we pass the outskirts of the city.

“Next month, I think. I want to see the quarter through. Make sure the team feels prepared before I step back.”

He nods, his smile deepening. “Perfect.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Perfect for what?”

He does not answer. Instead, he brings my hand to his lips and presses a kiss there, slow and unhurried. Our fingers stay interlaced, and I let the silence stretch, watching the way sunlight skims the edge of his jaw and warms the curve of his mouth.

We turn off the main road and into a part of the countryside where wealth hides beneath trees and hedges. The properties become larger, more discreet, gates blending into stone walls, security hidden behind sculpted gardens and curved driveways. Eventually, we pass beneath a canopy of oaks, and then I see it. A long cobbled drive winding upward, framed with blooming white hydrangeas and ash trees whose leaves whisper in the breeze.

I sit upright.

Ahead stands a house that belongs in paintings and poems. Cream-colored stone. Wide balconies trimmed with wrought iron. Rooftops that catch the morning light. One wing is covered in ivy, the other overlooks a garden carved into terraces, with sculpted hedges, flowering shrubs, and a small pond glistening at its center.

“Niklath,” I breathe, my eyes scanning every detail. “Whose place is this?”

He parks, reaches across to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and says, “Ours.”

My heart stumbles.

“What?”

“This estate. This home. It belongs to us now.”

I stare at him. “You bought it?”

“For you,” he replies. “For us. For her.”

His hand moves gently to my belly. “I wanted a place where you could breathe. Where our daughter could grow up with peace and space. Where you could paint, and rest, and live fully when she is not training with our pack.”

I follow him inside through carved double doors into a sunlit foyer. Everything is open and light-filled. Pale stone floors. Arched ceilings. Clean lines softened by natural textures. I catch the faint scent of cedar and jasmine in the air.

To the left, framed by glass, is a studio. A real studio. Canvases lined against one wall. An easel already set. Brushes in order. Even a small sofa in the corner beneath the window.

“You remembered,” I whisper. “I told you once that I used to dream of painting again.”

He steps behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “I remember everything you give me, even in passing.”

I look around once more. The view stretches out through the glass walls, revealing forest and field, beauty nestled within beauty. A space carved out for solitude and joy.

“I love it,” I whisper.

He rests his chin on my shoulder, voice soft and sure.

“I adore you,” he says. “And I adore her. Everything I am belongs to you both.”

I turn in his arms, and before I can speak, I kiss him. Not with urgency, but with the depth of everything I carry and struggle to say aloud. When I pull back, he touches his forehead to mine, waiting. My voice wavers.

“I adore you too.”

The words slip out before I can tame them. I feel the weight of them hang between us. I wonder if adoration means love in his language. I wonder if it is enough to bind us forever. I wonder if I can let go of that wondering long enough to just feel this peace.

He brushes his thumb across my lower lip and kisses me again, tender and full. Then he says, “Come. I want to take you for breakfast. There is a little place just down the hill. You will love it.”

I let him lead me to the car again, giving the house one last glance. It already feels like ours. Like home. We drive through the winding path, fingers still twined, and arrive at a quiet café nestled beneath ivy-covered walls. Maison Elise. The hostess greets us with a warm smile and seats us near the window. Niklath orders for us, speaking to the waiter in soft German that flows with ease, and I lean back, hand over my bump, just watching him.

I think about how he never says the words, but he shows me in everything he does. In the way he walks through the world with power and still carves out gentleness for me. In the way he never shields his strength but always offers it in protection, never in control.

Our coffee arrives.

And then, the door opens behind us. A soft chime. A familiar scent carried in.

I turn my head and my eyes clash with the last person I ever expected to see again.

Cecilia.

Standing just inside the entrance, dressed impeccably.

What is she doing in Zürich?

And why now?