Chapter 180 Chapter 180

Chapter 180 Chapter 180
Jolene
By the time we step through the heavy double doors of our apartment on the third floor, my lower back feels like it’s being compressed by a hydraulic press.
The place is a work in progress, but it already feels miles away from the damp, drafty nightmare of the lower basin. The smell of Lysander is entirely gone, replaced by the clean, sharp scent of lemon oil, beeswax, and fresh cedar. 
The Omegas have scrubbed every inch of the stone walls, the scorched mattress is long gone, and our original antique furniture - heavy, dark oak pieces that survived the occupation - has been polished and reset. A massive new mattress sits on our old bed frame, piled high with thick wool blankets and fresh linen.
I crawl onto the bed, and with a relieved sigh lie back on the soft, yet firm, mattress. “This is heaven,” I declare.
"I need ten minutes," Merrick says, rolling his shoulders as he unbuckles his leather belt. He’s caked in a layer of soot, dried mud, and ancient dust from working in the heating conduits all morning. "If I don't wash this off, I'm going to start smelling like a burnt pine tree."
"Go," I say, too lazy to even push myself up on my elbows. "I am not moving from this bed until tomorrow morning."
Merrick snorts, tossing his belt onto the side table, and disappears into the adjoining bathroom. A few seconds later, the pipes rattle violently before the heavy sound of steaming water echoes through the doorway.
I tilt my head back, closing my eyes, and let out a long, ragged breath.
Thump.
A sudden, sharp jab hits the left side of my ribs, followed immediately by a firm downward press that makes my teeth click together.
"Okay, sweetie," I mutter, smoothing my hands over the massive, round curve of my stomach. "That was my bladder. We do not kick the bladder. That is a non-negotiable house rule."
She doesn't care about house rules. She gives another enthusiastic wiggle, stretching her tiny limbs against my core, making me shift uncomfortably on the bed. 
I swear, every time I look down, this bump has expanded by another inch. I’m only five and a half months along, but I’m already carrying so wide and heavy that getting out of a chair requires a strategic momentum leap.
The steam from the bathroom drifts into the bedroom, carrying the warm, clean scent of sandalwood soap. 
A few minutes later, Merrick steps out, bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only a loose pair of dark drawstring trousers. 
His dark hair is damp, curling slightly at the nape of his neck, and his skin is glowing with that natural, furnace-like heat that makes him look entirely unbothered by the mountain chill.
He grabs a clean towel, drying his forearms as he steps over to my chair, his dark green eyes softening the moment they land on me.
"Still alive?" he asks softly.
"Barely," I sigh, holding up a hand. "Your daughter is trying to redecorate my internal organs. I think she’s trying to build a duplex."
Merrick smiles. A rare, slow, genuine smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, and reaches down, grabbing my hand to gently pull me up into a sitting position. He doesn't let go, he just swings himself around and sits down behind me, pulling me between his legs so I can lean back against his broad, warm chest.
I sink into him with an embarrassed whimper of relief. His arms wrap securely around my waist, his large, warm palms coming to rest over the high swell of my bump.
"She's active today," Merrick mutters, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder as my stomach gives a clear, distinct ripple under his hands. 
"Active is a polite word for it," I chuckle softly, lacing my fingers through his over my stomach. "She's a menace. And growing so fast"
We sit in the quiet room for a long while, listening to the faint, distant sounds of hammers echoing somewhere down in the lower courtyard. The silence between us is thick, safe, and entirely ours, a rare pocket of peace in the middle of a fortress surrounded by shadow.
"Jo," Merrick says quietly, his voice dropping into a low, serious frequency against my ear.
"Hmm?"
"Have you thought about a name yet?"
I pause, my fingers tightening slightly around his knuckles. "A name?"
"You're closing in on six months," he says smoothly. 
He shifts slightly behind me, his hands sliding down to frame the sides of my belly, his tone taking on a strange, cautious weight that immediately makes my internal alarm bells start ticking. "And there's something we haven't discussed about Lycan bloodlines. Mostly because I honestly didn’t think you’d make it this far."
I turn my head as much as I can to look at his profile. "What do you mean?"
Merrick takes a slow breath, he’s looking straight ahead at the crackling flames in the hearth. "Normal pregnancies take nine months. But when a child carries a high-ranking Lycan core, especially an Ultima mixed with a Lycan King, the physical development doesn't follow a normal clock."
My stomach drops. A cold, sudden prickle of anxiety shoots up my spine. "Merrick... what are you saying?"
"Some Lycan pregnancies only last seven months, Jo," he says softly, turning his face to look directly into mine. "The stronger the pup is, the faster they develop.”
“What? That makes no sense?”
“Yeah?” he asks with an amused chuckle. “And an Ultima turning humans into werewolves with his bite does?”
“Yes,” I say flatly. “There’s established lore for it.”
Merrick guffaws. “Well, in our world, the way a Lycan pregnancy progresses is also well-established. Clara didn’t warn you?”
“No, but she’s pissed at me.”
“Hm.” He slides his hand down my bump. “Judging by how fast your growing, and how strong her energy is pulsing... I don't think you're going to make it to nine months. I think she's coming in four to six weeks at the most."
The room goes dead silent.
Six weeks.
Not four months. Not a distant, abstract future where we’ve somehow cleared the mountain passes, defeated Lysander, and rebuilt our lives. Six weeks.
My mind spins wildly, crashing straight into a wall of pure, unadulterated terror. 
In less than two months I have to push a living, breathing Lycan baby out of my body. We are sitting in a half-ruined stone keep with patched windows, Clyde is rationing dry flour down in the hall, Lysander’s shadow casters are lurking in the forest, the healer is angry at me, and the human world is burning to ashes.
This if fan-fucking-tastic timing.
"Six weeks," I whisper, my voice cracking as the sheer scale of the fear hits me right in the chest. "Merrick... we're at war."
"I know," he says, his arms tightening instantly around me, pulling me back flush against his solid, reassuring chest, while I try to breathe past the panic that’s welling up inside me.
"What if the palace is attacked again?" my voice trembles, tears burning hot behind my eyes as I stare down at my hands resting over my daughter. "What if I go into labor while the wards are failing? What if I can't protect her? What if I bring her into a world where we're just running from stupid Lysander forever?"
"Hey," Merrick commands, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, turning my face firmly toward his. His eyes are glowing with a fierce, terrifying gold, not with anger, but with an absolute, unyielding promise. "Look at me, Jolene."
I look at him, my vision blurring with quiet tears.
"No one is breaking into this palace ever again," Merrick says, his voice vibrating through my chest like iron pillars being driven into the earth. 
"I am the King of the North. I have my pack, I have my walls, and I have you back, strong and healthy. You are not giving birth in the mud, and you are not giving birth on the run. You will have our daughter right here, in our home, surrounded by your people. I will tear the mountain down before I let anything touch either of you."
I choke out a small, wet breath, leaning my forehead against his cheek, letting his stoic, absolute certainty wash over my spiraling terror.
He’s right. Panicking won't slow down the clock, and it won't keep her safe. I have to face this - not as a terrified human running through the woods, but as the Queen standing beside her King.
I take a deep, steadying breath, letting the air fill my lungs, feeling the solid, stubborn kick of our daughter on my bladder.
"She needs a name," I whisper softly, pulling back just enough to look into Merrick's soft, understanding eyes.
Merrick's thumb gently wipes a stray tear from my cheek. "What are you thinking?"
I look down at my stomach, placing both of my hands flat over her tiny, energetic tumbling, feeling the heat of her life pushing against the cold world outside our windows.
"Hope," I say softly, the word settling into the quiet room with an absolute, unshakable weight. "Because that’s what she is. For the wolves, for the humans... and for us."
Merrick stares at me for a long, silent moment, his eyes softening even more. He looks content… happy. A slow, breathtaking smile touches his lips, and he leans down, pressing a firm, reverent kiss directly over my stomach.
"Hope Blackwood," Merrick rumbles against my skin, his large hand wrapping over mine. "It’s perfect, my Queen."